


Take your soul in hand

by Rainbow_Sprinkles



Series: Tend to your memories [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Casual drug abuse, Disordered thinking and behavior, Domestic elements, Gen, Heavy discussions of past abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internal Conflict, Medical Procedures, Mental Illness, Multi, Non-Binary Chara, Non-Binary Frisk, Parenting really messed up kids, Post-Pacifist, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Present and past tense, Psychology, Relasped PTSD, Return of the absentee father, Seriously everyone needs therapy, The fourth wall gets punched in the face, The real slow burn in this series, Varying POV, and alcoholism, and so many hugs, physical illness, then kicked while it's down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 22:32:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 89,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17252603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbow_Sprinkles/pseuds/Rainbow_Sprinkles
Summary: Love can be anything. Love can be bright and warm and happy. It can be fleeting or everlasting, passionate or casual, confusing or clear, intense or relaxing. Love can also be tragic and bitter and painful. It can hurt, but it can heal, too.Sometimes handling the past is the only way to make room for the future.





	1. Resentment: a mixture of anger, disappointment, and fear directed at a person or act regarded as unjust.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fourth installment in this series. Read the first three before this one.
> 
> The main plot should be fairly predictable if you read the tags and the summary. There is some short, not-very-explicit pelvic polka later on and suggestive themes sprinkled here and there. A few intense discussions of child abuse and other past traumas, which have all already been mentioned or alluded to. More details are unearthed here. 
> 
> The beginning of this story actually starts before [Smash your hourglass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10369893/chapters/22909383) takes place, but we will move past the ending of the prior installment pretty quickly. Please pay attention to tense because most chapters, but not all of them, will have a scene taking place in the past.
> 
> I have added a timeline in the description for this series (if I’m having trouble keeping years and timeskips straight, it wouldn’t be fair of me to expect you to do it accurately). You can see it [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/563425) I will be adding to it as I post later stories in this series.

He looked worried. At least he was under no illusion this would be a pleasant conversation. She had been sure not to give him any room to doubt exactly where he stood with her.

“Let me be very clear,” Toriel said without preamble. “We are not telling anybody about the children you killed. Monsterkind would suffer if the humans gained that knowledge at this time, and they do not deserve that, even if you do.”

They were standing in the kitchen of the apartment of a human Toriel felt was a little too concerned about Frisk. Of course, it was _good_ that she was concerned about Frisk, Toriel was concerned about Frisk too, but Isla’s concern seemed to extend to how Frisk was doing with the rest of them, and she did not need to be concerned about that. Toriel would take care of them. They called her Mom; they were her child.

Asgore cannot meet her gaze. “I am prepared—”

She does not want to see evidence of his guilt over this. “Asgore, you have ruled for a century without me. Six dead children mean you have done a poor job. I think it would be best for everyone if you regularly consulted me.”

There was a pause. For half a second, Toriel felt conflicting urges to hug him and throw a fireball at him for his injured expression.

“Our people like and admire you,” she continued. “I am not asking you to step down. They are too young to know me, so I could not replace you. I am simply saying we should co-rule again. It would put me in a position in which I can guide your decisions.” Because there was no point in pretending it would be for any other reason.

He finally looked up, but he was only able to make eye contact for a second. “Of course, Toriel. I agree. I would be grateful to have your help.”

Good. This was good, even if she did not feel good about it.

 

* * *

 

When Toriel awakens, she sucks in a sharp breath. In a beat, she recognizes her room in her house on the surface.

She does not have nightmares often, but… perhaps that did not even count as a nightmare. It was unpleasant, certainly, but not frightening. Oftentimes her dreams consist of boring, emotionally-neutral memories, but occasionally they diverge.

She is about to roll over and go back to sleep when she hears it. Somebody is moving about downstairs.

She stands, stretches briefly, and smooths down her nightgown before exiting her room. She pauses at the doors of her children’s rooms, but cannot hear anything going on inside, so she heads downstairs.

Chara is awake. They have turned on the light above the sink. They stand next to the counter, sipping a mug of hot chocolate.

When she sees it is them, she deliberately steps more heavily so they will hear and know she is coming. Chara hates it when someone sneaks up on them. When they turn to her, she smiles and says, “Greetings, my child.”

“Greetings,” they reply quietly. “I apologize for waking you.”

“Oh, you did not wake me. I simply had an unpleasant dream.”

She leaves it at that, dangling, and they take it. “So did I,” they admit, still quiet.

She stops perhaps three feet from them, resting a hand on the counter near them. She would very much like to sweep them into her arms to comfort them, but Chara likely wouldn’t find that comforting at all.

“Would you like to talk about it?” she asks gently.

Their small body goes still for a moment, then the hand holding their mug shakes a little. “No,” they answer. Their voice is slightly higher-pitched, the word choppy. One of _those_ dreams, then.

There are very few circumstances in which killing another is acceptable. War is one such instance. But she wonders – were she faced with Chara’s abusers, would she be able to stay her hand? What about Frisk’s? Chara’s are dead, but Frisk’s may be still alive. The people who killed Asriel – they did a terrible, terrible thing when they killed her sweet boy, but they did it out of fear. She can understand that. She still hates it, hates how it hurt him and Chara, but she can understand it. What happened to Frisk and Chara is something she cannot understand. She cannot understand why a parent would deliberately hurt their child.

“Do you want some hot chocolate?” Chara blurts. They go red at how loud their voice was and add, more quietly, “I can make some for you.”

She should not push them to talk. She nods, mentally filing away a reminder to herself to tell Isla about this. “I would like that, my child. While you do that, I will prepare snacks.”

She watches them for a moment as they turn to get everything ready. They are alright with turning their back to her, at least. She is glad they offered to make hot chocolate; they tend to do better when they are able to keep their hands and mind busy. Some days are better than others. One day they will be fine with something and the next the very same thing will bother them immensely, and they are always unlikely to say something about it. When someone they love breaches one of their boundaries or prompts them to do something that makes them uncomfortable, they will not say anything. They will do it and deal with it because they believe they should be able to do more at this point.

Isla told her it is likely going to be a problem for a while. Sometimes she feels like a failure of a mother – needing a therapist for all three of her children. Needing advice from a therapist simply to navigate interactions with her children.

Only a thought later she chastises herself. What matters is that she loves them and does the best she can by them.

Her fire magic means she gets done first. She gets a genuine smile out of them when she presents them with a plate of s’mores. The chocolate is redundant and the marshmallows are unhealthy, but it’s worth it, to see them smile.

Minutes later they are snacking and drinking hot chocolate. Toriel has to be careful not to get the stickiness of the marshmallows in her fur. She is pleased to see Chara leave a few crumbs on their plate when they finish.

After Chara recovered from their fall into the Underground, they all finally ate dinner together at the table. Chara ate slowly, constantly sneaking peeks at Toriel and Asgore when they thought the adults weren’t looking. Toriel suspected then, but she knows now they were looking for some sign that it was a joke. They must have thought either she or her husband was going to take their food away and tell them they couldn’t stay after all.

She noticed many of the nuances in Chara’s behavior. How they flinched when anyone touched them. How they looked for escape routes every time they walked into a room. How when they ate, they left absolutely no mess behind.

Toriel thought all this pointed to a child who had been punished severely for messes on the surface. It was more than that. Chara left no evidence when they ate because sometimes they hadn’t been allowed food on the surface. The rest of it… to think that anyone could do _that_ to a child…

“Mom?” Chara says hesitantly, snapping her out of her thoughts.

Frisk begin calling her _Mom_ immediately after the barrier broke. It took months for Chara to get into the habit. Sometimes they still call her and Asgore by their names. It does not mean Chara does not love them. They still have a lot to learn and unlearn about the concept of parents, and it would not be a failure if they cannot fully break free from associations formed because of people who hurt them so deeply.

“What is it, my child?” she asks gently.

“I was…” they trail off, start again. “I was wondering if Asgore stayed over tonight. It is not a big deal if he didn’t. I was only wondering.”

The question catches her off guard. It is not a surprise to her that they want Asgore after one of their nightmares. Often they will seek Asgore out to remind themself that not all men want to hurt them.

That they ask the question at all surprises her. Has she truly been allowing her ex to stay over so often her children have come to expect it?

Well… yes, she has. He leaves things in her guest room. He has his own key. At first it was because Asriel needed them both, he’d been so traumatized when he returned to them, but after that…

She never got around to telling him to remove his belongings from her house. In fact, she realizes belatedly, she kept inviting him over for dinner, kept asking him if he wanted to take the children to the park or the Embassy, kept saying _it’s late, you can sleep in the guest room tonight_. Then they got Chara back, and Chara needed them both, just as Asriel did. In fact, all three of her children seem to do better when both of them are around, and it is easier to co-parent when he is here.

“He did not, my child,” she answers. “I believe he has an early morning at the Embassy tomorrow.” She has no idea if this is true. Chara will not want her to call him over right now. They will not want to disturb his sleep. Instead, she asks, “Would you like it if he came over for dinner tomorrow?”

They nod. “If… he is not busy. And you are okay with it.”

“I am sure he would love to see you and your siblings,” she says. “I will ask him tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

It begins as a normal, nice day. It is summer, so the birds are singing. Last year he’d gotten around to installing birdhouses in the Embassy gardens and the park. He found he rather enjoys watching the birds take up residence and form their own little families. He ought to mount a camera on one so he can watch the babies learn to fly. He missed it last year.

Asgore heads downstairs early enough to greet the night janitors. He always says hello to everyone before he starts his day. It is the best motivation to complete the paperwork aspect of his job. He could probably get Isla to do it, but she hasn’t entirely gotten rid of her bad habit of overworking herself so he tries to never give her additional tasks, even if those tasks would keep her from interacting with people during politically-toned conversations.

He is pleasantly surprised to find Frisk is in the lobby already. He didn’t expect them for another thirty minutes or so. They are on summer break, so they have been spending their mornings helping him. He delights in their company and their commitment, but he rarely lets them spend a full day here. They enjoy some aspects of this work, but it is still work, and it is important they have time to themself for leisure activities while they don’t have school.

Frisk is chatting excitedly with the receptionist, who just arrived. Asgore is distracted from this by Toriel. Usually she only comes to the Embassy when they have a task that requires both of them.

“Howdy, Toriel,” he says, wondering what she needs.

“Greetings,” she replies, and that in and of itself is a miracle. That they can stand in one another’s company and greet each other and everything can be normal and alright. When Frisk led them into the sun, he was not sure she would ever allow him to speak to her again. Had she not, he would not have blamed her.

He pauses when he notices how stiff her posture is. She doesn’t seem _mad_ , exactly, but there is a tension in her that makes him immediately wary. Does she have bad news? Frisk seems to be alright, but are Chara and Asriel okay? Did something happen?

“May I speak with you privately?” Toriel asks. “It will only be for a moment.”

He nods and moves within conversational distance. He is fully prepared to hear that one of their children is having an issue when she says, “I think you should move in with me and the children.”

Asgore blinks. “Pardon me?”

Toriel clasps her hands in front of her. Her gaze is intense. He is so used to reading hostility into her body language he nearly expects her to throw a fireball at him. “I believe it would benefit the children if you were to move in,” she says. “Chara had a nightmare last night. They wanted your company upon awakening. I doubt it would be much of a change, given how frequently you have been occupying the guest room.”

“Ah,” he utters. “I have been staying over a lot, haven’t I?”

“Yes. You have.”

There is neither judgment nor accusation in her tone. It is simply a statement of fact. He cannot think of anything to say, and then the silence becomes awkward, and how can he not think of anything to say to someone whom he spent centuries loving?

Toriel is not in the mood to be patient. “Take some time to think about it,” she suggests. “You may get back to me later.”

He nods and she moves away from him. She pauses, turns around, and calls, “Oh, and come over for dinner, would you?”

He nods again, automatic. Toriel waves to Frisk on her way out. He stands there like a fool long enough that Frisk comes over, giving him an odd look. “What was that about?” they ask.

Asgore smiles at them. “Nothing in particular. Just two old folks saying howdy.”

Frisk raises an eyebrow. “Alright,” they say, though he can tell they don’t believe him for a second. “What are we doing today?”

 

* * *

 

Sans drags himself out of bed just before noon. I’ve already got breakfast on the table for him. Papyrus likes to cook whenever he’s home, so I usually cook for Sans when I get the chance. Now that I can make magical food, there isn’t any reason for me not to cook.

He comes down with his phone in hand, texting away. He recently started working second shift at the college. Usually the undergraduates do research in the afternoons and evenings and he helps them on days when the professor in charge of the project can’t be there or needs to leave early. Second shift wouldn’t be my cup of tea, but he likes it.

“Who are you texting?” I ask, because he usually doesn’t even look at his phone until after he eats.

“Tori,” he replies.

That was my first guess. They communicate daily, and it’s not like they see each other every day.

My own phone buzzes. I pull it out and look at it. “Huh,” I say. “It’s supposed to be my day off, but Asgore wants me to come in for lunch.”

Sans looks up. “He wanna talk to you about something personal?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

He holds his phone up. “Tori’s tellin’ me about it.”

 

* * *

 

He sends Frisk home at lunch. Right on time, Isla shows up.

Asgore barely gives her enough time to sit down before he says, “Toriel asked if I would move in with her and the children today.”

Her eyebrows go up a little, but not a lot. “That would explain it. Toriel told Sans about it. I’m not sure exactly what was said, but I’m under the impression she was looking for reassurance.”

For a moment, he is unhappy about that, then he realizes he did the exact same thing. He reached out to a friend so he could talk about it. “I am not sure what I should do,” he admits. “Her focus was very much on the children when she asked me.”

“Of course it was,” Isla says. “Just to be clear, she asked you to move in to make co-parenting easier, right? There were no romantic or sexual undertones?”

He glances around in a way he knows is entirely too conspicuous to make sure nobody can overhear. “No? I do not believe so.”

“Would living as roommates with Toriel make you uncomfortable?”

He shrugs. “No?”

She gives him a flat look. “I am… unsure about this whole thing,” he says. If he is honest with himself, his first instinct was to talk it over with Isla because there is something comforting about letting her tell him what to do. He does not trust himself with hard decisions. Toriel made most of the hard decisions when they were married. He was used to letting someone else tell him what to do, and the one time he refused to listen to Toriel, he ended up losing her and killing six children.

“I’ll ask something I know you have an answer for,” Isla says. “Do you still love her?”

Typically he would automatically answer in affirmative, but this is not the case. He hesitates, then says, “Yes. But… not in the same way, I believe.”

“I’m listening, if you want to talk.”

Think about it. He needs to think about the answer himself. “I spent so long… longing for what we’d had. It was not just Tori, it was Asriel and Chara as well. I would have given anything had it made us into a whole family again.

“But now? We have Asriel and Chara back. We have Frisk as well. I would feel comfortable saying that Tori and I are friends. But it’s not the same. It will not ever be the same as it was. Too much has happened and too much has changed. We would not be here without all that, so I cannot say I would rather the terrible things never happened at all. I will always love Toriel – I always did, but it does not feel the same.”

“Don’t box it in,” Isla says. “Let it be what it wants. Don’t start applying terms to it that don’t fit.”

“I will keep that in mind.” He pauses. “Would I, um, be remiss in thinking that this might possibly lead to something more?”

“Toriel obviously thinks so, too, or she wouldn’t have wanted to talk it through with Sans.” Crass as ever, she adds, “If you get laid, you have to tell me about it.”

He can’t stop himself from blushing. “I don’t, and I won’t.”

She shrugs, beginning to smirk. “Fine. I’m sure at least one of your kids will notice if it happens. They’ll let me know.”

Oh, golly. Does she really need to go there? Then again, this is the woman who readily admits whenever she and Sans have sex. She was the one who talked to all three of his children about sex. He was only glad about that because it let him off the hook.

Not that Chara required the entire talk. For perhaps half a second he feels wholeheartedly murderous, but he lets it go. Those people are already dead. They are dead, but he will likely have nothing but rage and bitter contempt for them forever.

Isla’s smirk fades. She noticed his sudden shift in expression, but she does not question it. “You should consider the possibility that this might end badly.”

“I have. It is what makes this decision so hard.” He pauses, claws tapping on his thermos of tea. “Is this… something we should discuss with the children?”

There are a few seconds of silence. “I don’t know,” she admits. “On one hand, I want to tell you that you should. Your decision will have a huge impact on them, so it seems unfair to keep them uninvolved. On the other, I’d bet you all three of them will feel… responsible, to some degree. Chara and Asriel have both dealt with guilt over your breakup, and Frisk will always be quick to dump blame and responsibility onto themself. They may feel compelled to make sure they won’t stress you out – which would mean hiding their symptoms, when they have them.”

If only loving and valuing a child rid them of anything painful in their mind. It is not enough, but it is all he can do. Love them and let them know it is okay that they must deal with their pasts.

“Would you want to tell them?” Asgore asks hesitantly.

She shakes her head. “If you choose to tell them, it needs to come from you and Toriel. You may have to encourage them to respond. They might feel like they shouldn’t speak up.”

He considers. It is true, he does not wish to unnecessarily stress his children – but they will probably be stressed over this as soon as they hear of it. He values their input and perspective. He is aware that he and Toriel don’t always know what is best for them. Sometimes they know better, and he and Tori have had to accept that.

“I think I want to talk to them,” he decides. “This is their family, too. They deserve to have their voices heard.”

Isla nods. It’s kind of funny. The idea of talking to his kids about this doesn’t make him nearly as nervous as the text he has to send to Toriel to see if she agrees.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is… normal. Asgore is around often enough that the children do not think anything of his presence. He asks Frisk about their endeavors in getting their driver’s license, since they will turn sixteen this month, but they will not be able to test for it for a few more months since they were late to get their learner’s permit.

Toriel is not looking forward to it. Partially because driving as a human teenager can be unsafe, but also because… she is not looking forward to _any_ of her children growing up. Well, she is and she isn’t. She has had moments of pride tinged with sadness and she expects more of those feelings as they near adulthood.

Neither of them says anything until she brings out dessert. Chocolate pie today. To her pleasure, Chara’s face lights up when they see it.

She waits until all three of her kids are forking pie in their mouths, then folds her hands in front of her and says, “My children, your father and I have something we would like to discuss with you.”

Chara and Frisk look up immediately, both of their gazes darting from her to Asgore and back again. Toriel smiles reassuringly. Frisk relaxes. Chara does not.

Asriel simply looks curious and a little confused. “What’s up?”

She exchanges a look with Asgore. There she sees the typical _you say it, you’ll say it better._ She agrees. “We discussed the possibility of your father moving in with us. We wanted to know how you feel about it before proceeding.”

Frisk’s face immediately breaks into a grin. “That’d be great! We could—” they glance at Asriel and Chara, realize their reaction is not being shared, and cut themself off. The grin drops off their face. “Um,” they utter, more quietly. “I mean… I’d like that.”

Chara stares at them both, expression neutral, before settling on Toriel. “Is this because I had nightmares last night?”

She has a response for this. “No, my child. This is because Asgore has been staying over frequently enough I figured he might as well move into the guest room for consistency’s sake.”

“But you live here, and this is your family too,” Asgore says. “It is going to impact you no matter what, so it seemed unfair to not allow you to have a say.”

Chara and Asriel exchange a look. Asriel’s face is beginning to look pinched. “So, uh,” he says. “Are you, um, getting back together?”

Toriel expected this question, but Asgore beats her to answering it. “No, Asriel,” he replies. “Toriel and I are friends,” here he glances at her, and she nods to confirm this, “and it is likely we will stay that way. We thought it would be better for you to have us both here. It would be easier for us as well, when it comes to parenting.”

She feels herself starting to frown and stops herself. Odd. She has never heard Asgore so much as imply that their future is only one of friendship. She knew that, at first, he hoped they could get back together. She also knew he respected her too much to ever bother her about it, but she never considered he had lost that hope.

Her son looks resigned, and she does feel bad about that. He has talked to Isla about guilt over their divorce – Isla told them so. Asriel knows they know about it because Isla only tells them whatever Asriel says she can tell them.

Chara blinks owlishly. “I agree with Frisk. I would like to have Dad here, but if it is going to be awkward for you two, that needs to be taken into account.”

“We have thought about it, dear,” Toriel says. Sans told her that things are only awkward if someone makes them awkward. He is a fairly shameless person, so of course it is easy for him to say that. “We wanted to speak with you before coming to a decision.”

Asriel bites his lip. “This sounds like it’s just for us. Would it make you happy?”

She knows that what she wants to say – they are the kids, they come first, always – will not satisfy Asriel. All three of them are children, yes, but they have also lived far longer than their ages indicate. They have all been through so much more than any child should ever experience.

“Well,” Asgore allows, “it may feel… odd at first, but it will be familiar and easier for us. Those are good things, so I suppose it will make us happier, even if we do not notice it.”

There is a pause. Frisk and Asriel are holding hands under the table. Toriel wishes they wouldn’t hide it. There is no shame in giving or accepting comfort. They must know nobody here would think less of either of them for needing it.

“I’m – I’ll always miss how it used to be,” Asriel says. “But I’m glad we can be a family again. Even if – even if you aren’t together, I think it would be good if we could all be here.”

She is not sure what she was expecting out of her children, but she is not surprised. “Alright,” she says simply. “Asgore, can you set aside this weekend so we can get you moved in?”

He looks relieved that it went so well. She wonders what he was expecting. “Certainly, Toriel.”


	2. Will: the capacity to act decisively on one’s own desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's good to be back! I missed doing this. Some of you are familiar to me and I'm glad to see you back. Some of you are newer, but don't be afraid to drop a line. I'm fairly responsive, even if it sometimes takes me a while to respond.
> 
> Kick my ass if you notice spelling/grammar errors. I will fix them if I know where they are.

It went better than he could have ever imagined. They had been well-received. Frisk in particular had done wonderfully.

But the first conversation they had with Isla after they returned to her apartment reminded him that so much could still go wrong.

She pulled him and Toriel aside. Alphys was on the computer, chattering excitedly to everyone else about what news sites were saying about them.

“We need to have a plan in place in case this goes badly,” Isla said.

“But it went well,” Asgore pointed out. It had. They had cheered for Frisk. Sure, he hadn’t anticipated the number of humans or cameras that had been present, but high turnout was good, right? It would spread the word quickly.

“It did,” Isla replied, “and we will be very lucky if it stays that way. Let’s start with a worst-case scenario. Let’s say war breaks out.”

“That seems unlikely,” Toriel said. “But, alright. We do not have the numbers or strength to stand up to even the local population of humans. I suppose we would have to either surrender or retreat.”

“You wouldn’t want to surrender. The government would take you prisoner and have scientists pull you apart. I’m sure they would want to figure out how to utilize magic by bypassing the monster made of it. And humans have colonized practically the entire Earth. If you had to run, you would never be safe.”

She said it so calmly, so practically. It made him look at her again. His first thought when he had seen her for the first time had been _she looks like Chara_. She did, but Chara had been a child. This human was an adult. She was smart and if she had decided to work against them, he knew they would have stood no chance.

“We could not return to the Underground,” Asgore said. “We could be followed, now that the humans are aware of our existence.”

“It seems stupid to preemptively bury yourselves,” Isla acknowledged. “But… would it be possible to put up another barrier? Except in reverse, this time, to stop anyone from coming in once they’re out here.”

“I… do not know if we have instructions, or if anyone knows how,” Toriel said. “But it is impossible because none of us possess the power that would be necessary to perform such magic. The original barrier was created using the power of seven human souls.”

“Okay,” Isla said. “But what if it was made with, say, two human souls? That would prevent anyone without the power of two human souls from crossing, right? So no human could cross and no monster could cross.”

Asgore glanced at Toriel out of the corner of his eye. She was frowning. “I… suppose so? Where are you going with this?”

“If someone who had a human soul and a monster soul cast this spell, that would still prevent any individual human or monster from crossing?”

Toriel’s eyes narrowed to slits. Asgore still didn’t get it. “You cannot mean what I think you mean,” Toriel said sharply.

“It would be a worst-case scenario,” Isla replied. “Think about it logically.”

“Er – what are we talking about?” Asgore asked. Better to interrupt before the conversation went completely over his head.

“Isla is suggesting that one of us absorb her soul to put this reverse barrier in place,” Toriel said. Her tone had absolutely no give. He recognized it from when Asriel had done something particularly ornery and felt a pang in his chest.

“Oh,” he uttered without thinking about it. “Oh, we couldn’t do that.”

“It wouldn’t have to be either of you,” Isla said. “Just somebody capable of putting up another barrier. And _think about it_. This would be in the case of _war_ , no sooner. My life versus the safety of your people should be no contest.”

Toriel said stiffly, “It would not be right to sacrifice a single life to—” and Asgore was immediately wincing, knowing where she was going with it and knowing it was a criticism of him.

But Isla interrupted her. “It’s not a matter of right and wrong. There is no _right_ in a war. You would only have bad options and in some cases, you would only have an instant without all the pertinent information to choose between bad and worse.”

For a moment he stared at her. He knew then that there was much more to this human than he had previously thought. She was not simply intelligent and observant and in a perfect position to help them. There was something else.

“This is a possible solution that would keep all of your people safe,” Isla continued. She wasn’t blinking and her voice was intense. “This would be a matter of _Frisk’s_ safety. You had better damn well bet they would be a target for questioning and interrogation if war breaks out. I know it sucked down there and you wanted to be up here, but in this scenario, you could wait the humans out down there. Wait until they forget about you, then try again. It might suck, but you would be alive. You would get a second chance.”

Asgore caught himself reflexively looking at Toriel for an answer to this impossible question. Her expression was pinched; bringing Frisk into the discussion had upset her. He did not like this, either. Even when he’d intended to take Frisk’s soul, he’d hated the idea of hurting them. Frisk had already given them so much and they were prepared to give so much more.

He regained his voice first. He needed to know this. “Why would you sacrifice yourself like that for us? Why wouldn’t you come with us and allow us to use the soul of another human?”

Isla’s eyebrows came down. Her mouth twisted a little. “It wouldn’t be a sacrifice. I have lupus. It’s a chronic disease. I’m on medications to treat it, but even with those, I have symptoms. You could take Frisk with you, but if I went with you I wouldn’t have access to my medications. I’d die, and it would be slow and painful and awful. If I stayed, I’d be taken for questioning. If war breaks out, I lose no matter what. And you can’t,” her voice shifted in quality, became slightly higher-pitched and louder, “you can’t ask me to come with you so I can spend the next ten or fifteen years dreading flare-ups and writhing in pain and being unable to move or eat when they happen. You cannot ask me to do that. I won’t.”

He recalled Chara, curled in their bed, spasming and vomiting blood, barely able to prop themself up on an elbow because they had been in so much pain. They’d lost too much blood in the end. It had taken hardly a day. What Isla was describing sounded far more prolonged.

“Given my options,” she continued, “I would want a quick death, one I know would help somebody who deserves it. You wouldn’t even have to kill me, I would do it myself.”

“I…” Toriel stopped. She clasped her hands in front of her to ground herself. So she could feel her own magic and make sure it was not getting out of hand. “I do not like this.”

“If it comes to war, you’re not going to like anything,” Isla answered. “Unless you’ve been withholding information relevant to this from me, this would be your best option.”

There was silence for a moment. Asgore understood what she was asking. One of the fallen humans had asked the same. They had asked him to make sure their death served a purpose. They had wanted to help, too.

He had no reason to believe she would lie about being ill. If she was going to die anyway it would be foolish to not put her death to good use. It was practical and cold. It hurt to make himself think like that, but in such a scenario, it would be the best of bad options.

“I understand,” he said. “You have my word.”

Isla met his gaze, then, and he abruptly saw hints of the same things he had seen in Chara as they lay dying. Bruise-colored bags under her eyes. Paleness bordering on pallor. She was a young adult, but in that moment he saw the same world-weariness that had weighed on him almost more intensely than the crown had during their time Underground.

Toriel looked at him, then at Isla. “I still do not like this,” she said. “But… it would be the best option from a strategic point of view. We are, however, getting far too ahead of ourselves. War does not look even remotely likely at the moment.”

“I wanted the possibility on your radar, since in such a case you would have to act quickly,” Isla replied. “But you’re right. Let’s talk about where to post the treaty when you decide to get it online.”

 

* * *

 

Toriel was correct – not much changes. Small things change. There is more of a variety of tea flavors in the house, and Asgore takes over caring for the lawn. He is very careful about intruding on Toriel’s space, even though she has not indicated she feels negatively about it at all.

He is always happy to spend more time with his children. June rolls into July and then August. Frisk gets their driver’s license right before they begin school again. Chara is still being homeschooled and that likely will not ever change. They do not tolerate being around large numbers of humans very well. There aren’t many humans relative to monsters at the school, but Chara needs to choose the humans whose company they keep.

During the day, while Asriel and Frisk go to school with Toriel, Chara will often come to the Embassy with Asgore. Sometimes they are with Isla, Sans, Papyrus, or Alphys. It varies depending on their mood and how many people they feel like tolerating that day. They adore Undyne, although Undyne’s job as gym teacher at the school usually precludes her from babysitting during school hours.

School has only been in session for a few weeks when the local city council again votes against citizenship for monsters. If he is honest with himself, Asgore expected this, though he hoped differently. Someone tries to bring a firearm into the Embassy and Isla is first to the would-be disaster in the lobby. She handles it gracefully, for once, which frees him up to confer with Frisk.

“We need to focus on the positives,” Frisk says, pacing. “I mean, we have to let everyone know we’ll keep fighting – without actually using the term _fighting_ – for equality, but that’s no reason to despair at what we’ve got now. It’s good! We’re doing so well. It can and it _should_ be better, but…”

Asgore didn’t know what to expect of human politics when they came to the surface. He has come to realize he isn’t very good at it. This society values honesty, facts, and evidence, which is why it has put up with Isla’s demeanor when what she says takes on a political tone. She is simply too hostile with people who, admittedly, very often have baseless accusations in lieu of facts, but Asgore keeps putting off talking with her about it. He has dropped hints and lines here and there, but he doesn’t know if his point has been absorbed. He doesn’t have to follow after her and soften statements or soothe hurt feelings as often, but it occasionally still happens.

His problem is that he is too nice. He dislikes interrupting people, even when he should, and he often has to fight the urge to apologize whenever he disagrees with somebody. Toriel is better at it than he is, but she does not enjoy it, either. She does not exactly take it well when she tries to educate somebody and they refuse to approach admitting that they may be wrong or don’t have all the facts.

Frisk is shaping up to be good at it. They actually seem to like it, too. They have said they enjoy it, but they are the type of person to overburden themself if it means the relief of others. Asgore worried for a while that they would not enjoy their position as ambassador when they grew up and they would neglect to tell him, but they are sincerely passionate about their work.

“That is true,” Asgore replies. “We must also urge our human supporters to stay out of violent confrontations. They need a reminder every so often.”

Frisk nods. “We have to acknowledge what just happened, too. That there are still people who believe our cause gives them the right to kill us.”

Sometimes he has doubts about letting them be ambassador. There is always the possibility it could get them killed, and if that were to ever happen, he would be devastated. He knows he would blame himself.

But removing them from the position would hurt them. It helped them become the confident, compassionate human they are today. He is so _glad_ he gets to watch them grow into themself as they do what they love. He will protect them when he can, but he has to let them do this.

They want to get their message out quickly, so they decide to take the online route. Scheduling another speech would take a few days at least, since their intended audience is the monster community, not the people who pay attention to the human press. Calling a press conference is easy with regards to time. They could have one of the conference rooms jam-packed with human reporters and journalists within a few hours, but not all monsters pay attention to the human media. Many do, but many prefer the two methods of spreading news they had in the Underground: Mettaton and the Undernet. Er, internet. Mettaton has been in and out of Newer Home between tours, but he is often wont to comment on political or social situations as they arise if he does not do a full report on them. He sometimes puts stories out before he has all the information he should have and he sometimes exaggerates details for dramatic flair. Even so, Asgore has been impressed with how accurate most of his reports are.

“Alright, Frisk,” he says. “Let’s begin editing.”

 

* * *

 

Most of autumn and the beginning of winter are devoted to watching Asriel. Isla does not seem surprised by this new development, which is Toriel’s primary source of comfort. It’s… not easy, watching all three of her children blame themselves for things only they remember.

With this it has become clear that Asriel is still struggling with identity issues. Toriel finds it difficult to reconcile Flowey with her son – she wonders if she would have believed anyone had they told her Flowey was Asriel while he was still Flowey. She must have, in a different time, but… they are so different.

Even as Asriel begins to relax and allow himself to retain habits and mannerisms he relied upon as Flowey, they are different. Asriel is different than he used to be, certainly, but he is still such a sweet, helpful boy.

Usually Toriel’s children serve as a kind of buffer between herself and Asgore. Most of her communication with him revolves around their children. Everything else is about shared goals, as trivial as those goals may be.

But their children are not always present when they interact. “I think I want to throw a party sometime this winter,” she tells him one evening. The kids are upstairs. One of them is in the shower; she can hear it running. He is in the kitchen and she has to raise her voice to be sure he hears her clearly. “We have a celebration every summer for Surface Day. It would be nice to do something in the winter, too.”

“It would,” he replies. “Our community could use more reasons to celebrate.”

“I agree. It would be little more than a get-together with food and drink. Our children could invite their friends. We could invite ours.”

He walks into the room and, on the end table by her chair, deposits a cup of steaming tea. She does not doubt it’s made precisely the way she likes it. “Thank you,” she says.

“You’re welcome. Did you have a specific time in mind for this party?”

“I was thinking mid-January.”

“Tori, that’s a month away.”

She focuses on her knitting. She could scold him for the use of her nickname, but… does it really matter? Does she mind? “I want plenty of time to plan.”

“Well, let me know what I can do to help you prepare once you have decided. I am at your disposal.”

After he walks away, Toriel messes up the next four stitches in a row, so she puts her knitting down for now and gets a book instead.

 

* * *

 

A small comedy club opened up in Newer Home last year. It began as an offshoot of a theater club from the university and evolved into something more. The university’s club still provides a large chunk of the entertainment, but professional and amateur comedians alike perform here as well.

Toriel and Sans make a point of trying to go once a month. They have brought others in the past – Isla, Papyrus, Toriel’s children – but they find they have the most fun on their own. Anyway, some of the material is not appropriate for her children, even though Chara had a lot of fun here. She looks forward to bringing them once they are of age.

“I’m sure Paps would wanna make something,” Sans says when Toriel tells him of her plans for the party. “I s’pose it’s my job to make him practice so we know it’s edible. What d’you want him to bring?”

“I have a list at home,” Toriel replies. “I will text you once I figure it out.”

There is a pause. When they started doing this, some human journalist took pictures of them and tried to make it sound like a romantic affair. Apparently human culture dictates that a famous person cannot go somewhere with a friend of the opposite gender without it being a romantic date. As if gender is always an accurate predictor of a person’s orientation and as if everyone is romantically oriented. It was frankly ridiculous.

Isla laughed the article off. Sans said something along the lines of, “What’s a monthly platonic date between friends?” Toriel elected not to comment except to say there were more important issues to report on. Eventually they dropped it, and now humans do not snap pictures of them when they are at their usual table.

“Got a question for ya,” Sans says. “You’ve been shacking up with King Fluffybuns for over half a year now, right? How’s that going?”

Toriel snorts into her drink at how casually that old nickname leaves Sans’s mouth. “The implications of the term ‘shacking up’ are incorrect,” she replies, patting her chin dry with a napkin. “It has been uneventful. It was as I’ve told you, he was already staying over so often for the children’s sakes it only seemed reasonable to make sure he was consistently in one place, so they could find him easily.”

“For their sakes,” Sans repeats. He says it in such a way that Toriel knows exactly what he is getting at.

“Yes, for their sakes,” she says. “Asgore and I are friends. We are not new to living with one another, so it has not been more than a minor adjustment for anybody. The children have only reacted positively to his presence.”

Toriel and Sans became fast friends upon their move to the surface. She felt comfortable referring to him as her best friend only weeks later. She can talk to him about almost anything, but he never asked her about Asgore. He never brought him up and he never invited her to talk about him.

She knows why. “I am… rarely angry,” she says. Sans doesn’t put effort into many things, but he does put effort into avoiding or diffusing anger. She suspects dealing with anger – even anger that is not his own – takes a lot of his energy, and he is not somebody who has much energy to spare. “I still am, especially when I think about the children whose souls helped Asriel break the barrier. But… I do not know. I am tired of anger.”

It’s the first time she has ever admitted anything to this effect. Sans looks at her. “Tori… have you talked to Asriel about when he broke the barrier?”

She pauses. “I have not. I never felt as though I needed to. I have been far more focused on what has caused him pain. I thought that moment was a happy one for him.”

“It was,” Sans says. “I asked him about it once, so don’t doubt that. He said that… before he broke the barrier, he could feel everyone’s love. Everyone’s hopes and dreams. He said everyone wanted the same thing. He was only able to break the barrier because everyone wanted it, Tori. Even the fallen humans. Even after what happened to them, they wanted to set us free. They provided most of the power Asriel needed to do it – all of us monsters were equivalent to one of them – so if they hadn’t wanted it, he wouldn’t have been able to do it.”

She goes very still. Even if she hadn’t asked her son about the destruction of the barrier, why did that not occur to her? She knows Chara retained self-awareness and a measure of control after Asriel absorbed their soul post-mortem. Of course the souls of the fallen humans would have some semblance of consciousness after being taken. Of course they would still have wills.

And the logic fits. All the monsters in the Underground provided a mere seventh of the power guided by Asriel. The majority was provided by those six humans. If only one of them did not want the barrier to fall, Asriel would not have been able to break it.

“I have never considered that,” Toriel finally says.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Sans advises. “Those souls are gone, now. They wanted to break the barrier. It doesn’t seem like too far of a leap to say they’d be happy with what we’ve accomplished. Just… somethin’ to think about.”

She still remembers their faces. She might have been the only person who mourned those children. The only one who remembers them as people, not as the souls who helped break the barrier.

“Aw, shit,” Sans says. He looks worried. “I upset you. I’m sorry. Shoulda kept my mouth shut.”

“No,” she replies quickly. “No, Sans, I’m not… I was only surprised. I am glad you brought this to my attention. You are right, I will think about it.”

He grins tentatively. “Well, uh, we’re in the right place for cheering up, but… if you want to leave, I understand.”

“No, I don’t want to leave.” It is simply a lot to take in. “And you are right once again. I could use a good laugh.”

 

* * *

 

When I wake up, I slip out of bed, peel back a corner of the blackout curtains, and look outside. We got a blizzard overnight. Happy New Year, I guess. I don’t mind snow, but I’m more of an inside person, so snow isn’t too relevant to me.

Sans rolls over. “Hey,” he says.

I let the curtain fall. There is just enough light that I can see his outline, the shape of his eyesockets and mouth, but color is muted. “Sorry I woke you up,” I say. “I’ll get out so you can sleep.”

“Nah. Come back to bed.”

I wonder what he wants. He doesn’t like morning sex, so I know it’s not that. We aren’t too cuddly, either. I climb back into bed, sliding under the covers with him.

One of his hands comes up under the hem of my shirt. His fingers palpate a scar. Breathe in, breathe out. “What’s up?” I ask him, because I can tell something is going on, even if I don’t know what.

There is a pause. Then, “I wanna tell you about my dad now.”

Oh, okay. This is good. I’ve been waiting for this.

I sidle up next to him, hooking an arm over his ribcage. “Alright.”

“Thanks for not… nagging me, or whatever.”

“It’s okay. You are allowed to take all the time you need. I know seeing him wasn’t easy for you.”

He rubs his face. “It wasn’t that. It was… I was tryin’ to work up the guts to tell Papyrus. He deserves to know, and I never told him, after he forgot.”

I consider. “Will telling Papyrus make you feel better?”

“I fuckin’ hope so, even though I would totally deserve it if he got mad at me.”

“You know he wouldn’t do that.” I feel confident saying that. Papyrus will give Sans exaggerated exasperation whenever he makes too many terrible jokes in a row. Papyrus will express disappointment and frustration. I have never seen Papyrus actually angry with someone. “But will telling Papyrus make _him_ feel better?”

“That’s the problem.” His grin has dropped several notches. “I dunno. I want it to, but I’m wondering if I’m being selfish by wanting to tell him.”

“Sans, when it comes to the people you love, you are one of the least selfish people I know. It might be good for you to be selfish every so often. I think… Papyrus will feel bad about forgetting about your father. That seems reasonable to expect. I don’t really know how he’ll react to the fact that you’ve had this information since it happened, but I honestly don’t believe he will be angry.”

“Okay.” His grip tightens the way it does when he wants to pull me closer. He doesn’t like to tug me around. He rarely touches me when anyone else is present. Usually I’m the one initiating physical contact.

I nestle myself further into his side and he relaxes. “So did you want to talk a little today?” I ask. “Or a lot today? It’s up to you. Whatever you feel like you can do. And you can always change your mind, if you get started and want to stop.”

“Do you have time?”

All I had planned for today was Asriel. If Sans is still talking, I can text him later and tell him we have to reschedule. Sans rarely feels like talking, so it’s important that I listen to him when he feels like he can. Asriel will understand.

“Yes,” I reply. “I’m yours today.”

“Then I want to do everything. I wanna tell you about it, then tell Papyrus.”

I feel myself frowning. “All at once?”

“Yeah. Paps deserves to know, and the sooner I get it out the better.”

I hesitate. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Sans tires easily. When he has to deal with something emotionally taxing, he exhausts himself that much more quickly. I’m not sure unloading his childhood and telling his brother about their not-dead-but-technically-nonexistent parent will not totally drain him.

But I’ve always let my patients have more control than they perhaps should have. It’s important to feel in control, especially to somebody who feels as though their psychological symptoms are controlling them. Sans isn’t a patient, he’s my partner, and it’s not my job as his partner to tell him he can’t talk to his brother today. It would be my job as his therapist to pace his treatment, but he doesn’t like it when I go therapist on him.

Maybe I watch him, and gently suggest we finish later if he starts looking really tired? That should work. “Okay. Do you want to start now?”

“Yeah. But first… remember what Gaster said? About reading being less interactive than video games.”

I lift my head so I can look at him. “Yes? But it made no sense.”

“Nah. I think I figured it out. It’s an inside joke. Or an outside joke, heh heh.”

“Do you intend to let me in on it?”

He chuckles. “I really don’t think it would make sense to you even after I explained it. That’s okay, somebody else is supposed to get it. I was just thinkin’ that, before I bare my soul here, we need a scene change. Or a chapter ending. Whichever works.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote something awhile back that functions as a Sans backstory that I consider canon to this series. You can find it [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10716756) It is a supplement, but not a requirement, to this series.


	3. Confusion: the state of being unclear in one’s mind about something.

Toriel was in her element. It may have only been a four-week course, so she didn’t get to spend much time with her students, but she liked it. She preferred teaching children to adults, but this was a good way to get to know everyone. Most people did not know her well, even though she was the queen.

It left the politics to Asgore, but that was alright. Most of the difficult tasks were out of the way. At this point, the humans only wanted all monsters to complete Toriel’s course and obtain official identification. Both of these things were perfectly reasonable. Asgore could handle overseeing the paperwork distribution and talking to the diplomats and politicians who decided to come to the Embassy.

They did not see each other often, and when they did, their conversations were short and only meant to update one another. It… worked, Toriel supposed. She did not like it, but that did not matter. What mattered was making sure monsters could live peacefully alongside humans.

She didn’t expect him to drop by, so she was surprised when he did. “Greetings. Did something happen?” she asked, frowning.

“Howdy, Toriel,” Asgore said. She could tell he was hesitating. “Do you have a moment?”

“I suppose so.”

“Frisk stayed with me last night.”

She raised an eyebrow. She knew that. She always knew where Frisk was. “So they did.”

“I don’t know if they told you,” Asgore continued, “but they had a night terror. They wanted me to call Isla, so I had her come over.”

Toriel was paying more attention to him now. “This has been an ongoing issue. Isla is working on it.”

“Is she making any progress? She seemed exhausted last night.”

“She… does not seem to be worried. Frisk pretended to be okay for a long time. I would not be surprised if it takes them a long time to recover.”

After all… Chara had never recovered fully. Whatever had happened to them, it had haunted them until the day they had died. Of all the fallen humans, Frisk had reminded her the most of Chara. Still reminded her of Chara, on occasion.

“Toriel,” Asgore said. “Frisk… their birth parents were not kind to them, were they?”

Frisk had never said anything to Toriel about their birth parents. Isla had told Toriel she suspected Frisk came from a bad home situation, but as far as she knew, Frisk had not given Isla details.

“No,” Toriel replied. “They were not kind to Frisk.”

A moment of silence. “They deserved better,” Asgore said. “Can I do anything to help them? Or you?”

Part of her wanted to point out that none of the fallen humans had climbed Mount Ebott for happy reasons and he had not wanted to help any of them. Part of her wanted to tell him she could adequately care for Frisk herself.

She resisted these impulses and considered what would be best for Frisk. “I have not been spending as much time with them as I would like,” she said. “Neither have you, I presume.”

“We have been incredibly busy,” Asgore allowed.

“Yes, well. I suppose we could do a better job coordinating care. I have been depending heavily on Isla for babysitting duties. Frisk loves her, and she them, but we are their parents. That does not mean they will assume we care for them. It’s our responsibility to show them how much they mean to us.”

She studied him as he fidgeted. “If… you would allow me, I would be happy to take them during the day when they have time off from their role as ambassador.”

Toriel sighed. “Of course I will allow you. Asgore, whatever my opinion on your abilities as king, you have… always been a good father.”

Names hung in the air between them. Asriel and Chara. Despite the separation, the resentment and disapproval, Asgore was familiar. She spent more time than she liked catching herself falling into old habits around him, be it mannerisms or patterns of communication.

“I expect that to carry over into your relationship with Frisk,” she said, applying more sternness into her tone. “They need us. We must be careful with them and do the best job we can.”

Asgore nodded. He looked a little downcast. “Yes, Toriel. I am in complete agreement.”

There was no benefit to continuing this conversation. “Thank you for stopping by. Let me know when you are free to spend time with Frisk. I’m sure Isla will be okay with sharing them every so often.”

 

* * *

 

I try to work breaks in throughout the day. We spend a few hours in bed. I get us up and make a breakfast so late it’s lunch and we eat in near-silence. A few hours later I run a bath and we both get in and Sans ends up falling asleep for a little while. I take the opportunity to text Asriel to tell him not to come over today.

Sans has always been quick to repress things and ignore them and hope they go away. His apparent laziness isn’t simply a matter of tiring easily, it also has to do with his fear of negatively impacting anyone or anything around him. He doesn’t expend effort very often, so when he does he feels strongly obligated to be certain that what he is doing will be good, which leads to indecisiveness and inactivity.

As I’m listening to him describe everything he did for Papyrus, all the sacrifices he made, I am struck with a thought: what has he been sacrificing for me?

The more I think about it, the more likely it seems. He spent years always making sure Papyrus was happy. It tired him out so much that, by the time they were both adults, their roles were essentially reversed, and Papyrus became the caretaker. That made Papyrus happy, so of course Sans allowed it, and now, with me… when was the last time he asked something of me? The last time he disagreed with me?

When Chara got out of Frisk’s head. That was over two years ago. It is simply not statistically likely for any two people in any kind of relationship to agree on everything for that long. This means that whenever he disagreed with me, he didn’t tell me.

This... needs to be addressed, but it can wait. He wants to tell Papyrus and me about Gaster. He spent weeks trying to mentally prepare and build the energy for that. Abruptly dumping something else that is emotionally taxing on him to relieve my own insecurities would be unfair.

It’s clear, from listening to Sans talk, that his father did not intend any harm. I didn’t get that impression from Gaster, either. He needed another person to help him parent and another person to help him run his experiments to be successful at both jobs. With nobody else, Sans became Papyrus’s primary caretaker and didn’t have enough time to keep his father in check when it came to work. He was too young to help Gaster on either front, but he did his best and, like his father, chose to prioritize one over the other. They just chose differently.

Sans almost never cooks, but he cuts up vegetables so I can make stir fry. He’s tired, but when I ask him if he wants to continue this tomorrow he shakes his head and says he wants to do it tonight.

Papyrus comes home. He greets us enthusiastically and we all sit down to eat. Whenever he has a class, Papyrus always wants to tell us about what he learnt. If the recipe contains things that are particularly difficult to digest, he asks his instructor for substitution possibilities because in spite of his ego he is tooth-rottingly sweet and always mindful of my poor gastrointestinal health.

Sans waits until after we’re done eating to tell him. I stay mostly so I can be supportive. I’m not expecting to mediate. I have never seen Sans and Papyrus truly angry with each other.

They start off on the couch and I start off in the chair. The conversation ends with Sans leaning heavily against his brother, Papyrus’s arms wrapped around him. Clawdia is curled on Papyrus’s lap and Jennifur is on the back of the couch, resting against the younger skeleton’s shoulders. Picatso came to me and is stretched out on his back on my lap so I can rub his tummy.

“Sans,” Papyrus says. “Thank you for telling me.”

Sans’s head tips up. “You’re not mad?”

“No, Sans. I know this was hard for you to talk about. I am glad you told me. Now I know why some of my memories feel… funny.”

“Sorry.”

“No, do not apologize. I understand! You have always been a great sibling, Sans.” He pauses. “Are you tired? Would you like to go to bed?”

Sans’s eyesockets close. “Yeah, Bro. That’d be good.”

Papyrus stands, spilling Clawdia on the floor and leaving Jennifur on the couch. He easily lifts Sans, looks at me, and waits for me to pick Picatso up and put him on the floor.

We head upstairs together. I take Sans’s hoodie and slippers off. Papyrus puts him in bed when I pull the blankets back. Within ten seconds he’s asleep and all three cats are piled around and on top of him.

Papyrus beckons me and we step into the hall. He pulls the door closed gently, then stands there and stares at nothing in a way that is decidedly un-Papyrus.

“Papyrus?” I ask quietly.

His gaze snaps up to me. He releases the doorknob. “This was… a lot,” he says, tone vaguely befuddled.

I nod. “Yes, it was. Do you want to talk about it with me?”

“Maybe a little,” he says after a moment. “I want to talk more with Sans, but I know this was not easy for him. Still, I would be remiss to allow him to bear this burden by himself, like he has for so long.”

“Let’s move downstairs,” I suggest.

Our feet aren’t even on the first floor before he begins talking. “I’m not angry with Sans. I’m not even disappointed. I want that to be clear! But I do wish he would have told me sooner. That way he wouldn’t have been alone in this.” A pause. “But I am glad he told me today! I… just wish I could have done more to help him.”

“I know, Papyrus. I think a reason he didn’t is that he didn’t feel he could trust his memories. He didn’t want to risk giving you false information.”

“That makes sense. And I know he did not think it was fair to tell me about our dad and then have to tell me he was functionally dead. I understand that. But Sans has a habit of withholding things from me, and I wish he wouldn’t. First it was the concept of timelines and that we all died Underground and now we had a dad I don’t remember. If something is unpleasant, he isn’t likely to tell me. If something is tragic, he won’t.”

“It isn’t only a matter of wanting to keep you happy. It is very difficult for Sans to talk about anything that is meaningful in a negative way.”

“I know. I think he tries to keep me out of things more than he should. I think you do, too.”

When I hesitate, Papyrus is quick to add, “I’m not mad! I know you both have the best of intentions! You wouldn’t be doing this if I did not mean so much to you. But I want us to work on it. I want it to change.”

Part of me wants to say no. Papyrus’s optimism and outlook are borderline delusional sometimes. He always manages to see good, even when it’s invisible to everyone else. It has bolstered me and I know it does the same not only for Sans, but for everyone with whom he interacts. I want to do whatever I can to protect that, but at the same time, Papyrus is practically my brother, and he’s an adult. I am more often honest with the kids about certain things than I am with him.

“Okay.” I reach out a hand. “I hear you, I understand, and you’re right. I’m sor—”

He ignores my hand, takes a step forward, and lifts me into a hug. It’s nice. Even though my feet dangle, he knows how to do it in a way that doesn’t hurt my back.

“I love you,” he says.

Aw. “I love you, too.”

He puts me down, beaming. “You should go to bed, too. Don’t set an alarm. I will wake you both up tomorrow! Then I will make us breakfast!”

He quickly moves towards the stairs, presumably to head down into the kitchen to see what ingredients we have. He hates coming to a decision on what to make and then realizing he doesn’t have everything he needs.

I pause for a moment longer, mentally going over my to-do list. I open the door and head into our room.

 

* * *

 

Undyne grins ferally. “You should announce it at the party. Make a big speech.”

“Undyne,” Alphys says. “That would be inappropriate.”

“Come on!” Undyne protests. “Impassioned declarations of love are awesome! _You_ know they’re awesome!”

“Well, yes,” Alphys admits. “But they’re not for everyone! A-and anyway, Asgore just said…”

“I am unsure,” he finishes for her. “I said I am unsure.”

“Exactly,” Alphys says. “Impassioned declarations of love are only for people who are _sure_.”

“I guess,” Undyne grumbles. Her good eye finds Asgore. “If you’re not sure you love her, how _do_ you feel?”

Asgore was close to Undyne for a long time before the barrier came down. She was like his daughter, but not quite, because at that point he was unable to allow himself to even think about being a father ever again. He was acquainted with Alphys, too, from her work, though for most of it she pushed everyone away and secluded herself. He was heartbroken to discover what that work had done to her, and to others – but he supposes it turned out alright.

Of his close friends, he feels as though he has known Undyne and Alphys the longest, if not the best. He remembers meeting Papyrus on a trip to Snowdin, but he cannot remember when he met Sans. He has been acquainted with Sans for a long time, too, all without Sans ever really revealing anything about himself.

There is Toriel, too, but… well.

“We have… been falling back into old habits,” Asgore says slowly. “They are all little things, like how the kitchen is arranged and who does which chores around the house. We have both been so careful around one another. I thought I was content being friends and I know we cannot simply go back to how we were before. Too much has changed. We have both changed.”

Undyne scowls. “You totally avoided my question.”

He did, didn’t he? “I’ll always love her. But…” he sighs, frustrated. “That I need to qualify and cannot accurately describe how I’m qualifying does not bode well, does it?”

“Pfft, no,” Undyne says. “You were married for centuries, buddy. You’ve got a centuries-old idea of what romantic love’s supposed to feel like. When you start loving someone in a way that’s not exactly like how you’re used to, of course it’s not going to seem like real romantic love to you.”

“And you sh-shouldn’t have to force it to be something it’s not,” Alphys adds. “Maybe you c-can’t have what you had before. That’s okay! It’s st-still a loss, you’re still allowed to g-grieve it. But maybe now you have room for something new to grow. It won’t b-be the same, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be wonderful.”

Undyne grins at her. Alphys notices and goes scarlet, grinning back. They join hands. Asgore politely averts his eyes, sipping the tea Undyne made in preparation for his visit.

But they don’t smooch. Instead, Undyne turns to him and says, “I was always kinda freaked out about confessing to Alphys. I thought I’d screw up our friendship, and being friends with her was awesome!”

“It w-was the same for me,” Alphys says. “I th-thought she’d hate me for all my m-mistakes. B-but… at some point I realized that even if she d-didn’t feel the same way I did, we’d still be friends because our b-bond was just that strong.”

Undyne is nodding. Their gazes meet once again, and they both blush and look away, both still grinning hugely. It is heartwarming to see.

“It’s not gonna be exactly the same,” Undyne says. “Especially ‘cause I think Toriel already knows, Asgore. You, uh. Weren’t too subtle about it at first.”

No, he wasn’t. He quickly figured out she was only going to tolerate him for the sakes of Frisk and monsterkind, so he tried to pine quietly, but it took him a while to stop casting longing glances at her when he (often incorrectly) thought she wouldn’t notice. And, when he had a decision to make, to stop trying to frantically determine which course of action would please her the most – or displease her the least. And to stop thinking about her and what they had lost all the time.

“I suppose you are right,” he sighs. “I could have been a little less transparent.”

“Nah, that’s not what I meant!” Undyne says quickly. “I _meant_ that she won’t be taken off guard if you tell her again! Which you should do.”

Alphys nods, agreeing. “Yeah! I know it w-won’t be easy… it never is. B-but she’s been warming up to you for years. She knows you’re great with the kids. She e-even slips up sometimes and calls you Gorey.”

Asgore spent almost a hundred years feeling awful about who he was and what he was doing. He knows he is a good father. He lets himself have that, if nothing else. He is better if he parents with Toriel, because they are used to it and they have a system that works, but he is still pretty good at it by himself.

“I will think about it,” he replies, knowing they will not accept anything less from him. Besides, he does need to think about it. He needs to think very hard about it, now that he has spoken about it with three of his closest friends. “I may not feel ready to act on it quite yet, but I will think about it.”

“Good, because I ship you two so hard,” Alphys blurts, then promptly blushes, which draws laughter from Undyne and Asgore.

 

* * *

 

The guest list expands more than Toriel expected, but that is alright. It is nice to see everyone come together to have a good time. She likes feeding people, too, and they certainly are not short of hungry mouths tonight.

She rules the kitchen, keeping the food stocked and the counters clean. Asgore tries to help a couple times, but she shoos him back to their guests. He has always been good at casual socializing and their people absolutely love him. That is something that has not changed.

Every so often she circulates to greet new faces and make sure everyone is okay. Isla and Sans have taken over her chair by the fireplace, Isla sitting normally and Sans lying across her, head on one arm of the chair, feet propped on the other. He’s snoozing and one of her hands is repeatedly stroking along his skull.

Undyne and Papyrus have gathered a group of children and are telling them a familiar story – that of Frisk’s travels through the Underground. Undyne is describing how they outran her into Hotland. Frisk is nearby, trying to look cool whenever the children glance at them in awe. Toriel giggles at that. They are so adorable.

Asriel has commandeered his father’s attention. The two are eating pie together. As she watches, Asriel feels his horns with both hands, measuring, then looks at Asgore for a reply. Her son is nearly fifteen and almost six feet tall. Just within the past few months his horns have grown longer than hers are. With that comes what she wanted more than anything during her century of isolation in the Ruins – off-white spots in her fur, grey hairs in Asgore’s mane, a slight stiffness in her body when she wakes up in the morning. They are finally aging.

Alphys is introducing two young monsters to Mettaton. The poor girls look as though they can hardly contain themselves. Toriel knows she has met those two before, but she cannot remember their names. The informative class she taught upon their arrival to the surface allowed her to meet everyone, though she feels as though she still does not really _know_ the majority of her subjects.

She could sit back and watch this for hours. People talking, laughing, eating, taking joy in one another. All these different kinds of love, brought together by them.

Love can be anything. Love can be bright and warm and happy. It can be fleeting or everlasting, passionate or casual, confusing or clear, intense or relaxing. Love can also be tragic and bitter and painful. It can hurt, but it can heal, too.

She knows that all too well. Toriel sighs and wipes at an imaginary spot on the counter. She has been thinking nonstop about what Sans said about the fallen humans – and she still does not know what she wants to do. Is the fact that it all worked out in the end enough? How about that the fallen humans wanted the barrier to fall? Is _anything_ enough to forgive the murders of six children?

“Yo, Toriel,” a voice says, snapping her out of her train of thought. The speaker is Shannon. Sometimes humans are confused as to whether they are supposed to be formal and will address Toriel as ‘Queen.’ There were never any such compunctions with Shannon.

Once she has Toriel’s attention, Shannon says, “You know your shy kid? The one who’s never on television and looks like my sister.”

Toriel frowns. “Chara?”

“Yeah, Chara. Your downstairs bathroom was occupied, so I went upstairs to take a leak, and they were puking in the toilet. They didn’t exactly want my help.”

Oh, no. “Did they say anything… rude?” Toriel asks hesitantly.

Shannon shrugs. “Yeah, but it’s fine. Isla told me a while back they aren’t particularly fond of humans. I just thought I’d let you know so you can help them out.”

“Of course. Thank you, dear.” She is already moving towards the stairs. Last month Frisk got a nasty cold. Chara had the same thing plus vomiting. Toriel is not sure if that means it was a different illness or if it was the same illness and her children had differing symptoms. Frisk recovered more quickly than Chara. For a while, Toriel debated cancelling or moving the party because Chara wasn’t getting better and, as much as everyone tried to hide it, they were worried.

Chara, naturally, noticed how anxious they all were – especially Asriel – and probably claimed they felt better before they actually did. That is all this is. She _hopes_ that is all it is.

She knocks gently on the door, says, “My child, I am coming in,” and counts to five before opening the door.

Chara is curled up on the bright yellow rug. They do not appear to be in pain. That is, they are not tenser than usual. They almost always have a tension about them and they are completely unable to relax with people they don’t know well in the house. There is nothing in the toilet; they must have flushed.

Their eyes find hers. “Sorry,” they utter, quiet, soft, as their gaze slides away.

Toriel approaches them. She lowers herself to her knees at the edge of the rug. “You have nothing to apologize for, my child. Would you like me to get you anything? Water, perhaps?”

They shake their head. “I got a drink from the faucet already.”

Both Frisk and Chara have a habit of doing that – just sticking their mouths under the faucet and turning it on. Her reminders to get a cup often go unheeded. “Are you feeling unwell?”

They hesitate. She sees them hesitate. “Chara, I am not angry with you, but I believe you may have fibbed about feeling better last week. Is that the case?”

Their face flushes. “I felt _better_ ,” they protest. “Just – not fully recovered. I – I think I was better, then I ate something that did not agree with me, that’s all.”

That… is true. They said they felt better. They did not say they were back to one-hundred percent. “I am sorry, my child. Do you think the stress of all our guests may have contributed to this as well?”

They hesitate again, but this time they do not lie or bend the truth. “Yes,” they admit. “But I don’t want you to never have people over because I can’t handle it. I can handle it, I promise. I want to get better at it.”

“For how long were you downstairs?”

“About… an hour and a half, I think.”

“Chara, you _are_ getting better at it. You could have never spent that much time in a crowd a year ago. I am very proud of you.”

They go bright red at that. They should be proud, too. They have made so much progress. Perhaps someday they can attend school, as Frisk and Asriel are… though Toriel supposes attending school might make it more difficult for them to continue learning at an accelerated rate. Homeschooling easily allows her to mold the curriculum to them. She is fairly sure they prefer it, too – and she will not push them when it comes to their fears and boundaries. They do enough of that on their own, frequently without telling anyone.

Chara sits up and slowly crawls onto her lap. She enfolds them in her arms now that they have given her permission to touch them.

“I don’t want to keep you,” they murmur. “You can go back downstairs. I am fine now.”

Over the past few weeks she has gotten quite familiar with how Chara behaves and looks when they are nauseous or in pain. She does not believe either to be the case presently. “What if we put Sans in Frisk’s bed and you rest in yours?” she says. “Would you feel more comfortable with him in the room instead of being by yourself?”

They pull back and look at her quizzically. “Is he asleep?”

“Conked out on Isla’s lap.”

“Oh.” It is not particularly unusual for Sans to fall asleep in places or at times one does not commonly associate with sleeping. “Yeah, I guess that would be okay.” They pause for a moment, considering. “I wonder if I can draw on his face without waking him up.”

Toriel laughs aloud, then immediately silences herself because she does not want to encourage that behavior. “I would not recommend commencing a prank war with Sans,” she says. She can only imagine cleaning up after that.

Chara sees the smile she is failing to smother and gives her a small grin. Toriel gives in and returns the smile, only for theirs to abruptly fade.

“I… was not nice to Isla’s sister when she found me,” they murmur. “I should apologize.”

“Don’t feel as though it’s required of you today,” she replies. “Shannon understood. We can wait until you feel better.”

They nod. “Okay.”

“Let’s get you to bed. Then I will retrieve Sans.”

 

* * *

 

I make an effort over the next month to be more conscientious. Sans and I both work and our version of doing stuff together is sitting on the couch watching movies and using each other as pillows when we fall asleep.

I ask him if he wants to go anywhere or do datey things, but he turns it around and asks what I want. I ask him what he wants to eat or which movie he wants to watch and he almost always tells me to decide. I ask him if he wants me to get take-out from Grillby’s and bring it by for his dinner break at work and his response is, “If you feel like it.”

The frustration mounts, but I am careful not to take it out on him. Think about this logically. Objectively.

When we were friends, we didn’t have to share many decisions – he did his thing and I did mine. But when we _did_ share decisions, I was almost always the one who made them. Sometimes not by choice, since he basically stonewalled me into choosing how to redo our room, save for the double bed. He deferred to me unless it looked like I was going to cause harm. Usually self-harm, since he was on my ass a lot about overworking myself. But for every stupid little thing in which the outcome didn’t really matter, he let me choose.

That didn’t exactly change when we got together. Even trying to get his input on what he wanted us to be could only be done after a delicately-balanced combination of nagging and patience. I mean, I expected to be in charge most of the time, since that was the case with our friendship. I know that is his preference, but I don’t think he wanted it to go so far as this. If I am available, I am making the decisions for us. He can’t want me to choose literally _every_ time. That is ridiculously unlikely.

The thing is, even when I ask him to make a decision, he nearly always pawns it off on me, and he usually does it in such a way that it _does_ seem like he wants me to choose all the time.

I am much worse at reading Sans than I am at reading other people. That has been the case since the day I meant him. I cannot tell through observation whether he likes the decisions I am making.

I start to wonder if I’m blowing this out of proportion. Maybe he actually doesn’t care. Maybe he doesn’t want to make any decisions. Maybe I’m being paranoid.

Maybe I should sit him down and talk to him about it. Getting worked up before I address it is stupid, so I decide what I’m going to say to open the conversation and put it at the back of my mind. Now I just have to wait for him to get home from the college.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, I’m not sure which) I have a distraction in the form of my sister, who shows up unannounced just after six. She seems _nervous_. Shannon is never nervous. When Shannon is anxious or afraid of something, she gives that thing a middle finger and puts up her fists.

Because it’s dinnertime, I say, “I already ate, so I only have leftovers to feed you. Want some alfredo?”

“No,” she says. She passes me and I shut the door behind her. She stands there awkwardly in the entryway. This is unusual, too – she always immediately makes herself at home whenever she comes over.

I cross my arms. “It hasn’t been ten seconds and you’re weirding me out. What’s going on?”

“Um,” she says eloquently. “I’m, uh – I’m kinda pregnant.”


	4. Haphephobia: fear of touching or being touched.

They left the room. Sans stayed with Isla, who was probably already scheming on how to get discharged sooner.

“Asgore,” Toriel said quietly. She’d stopped just outside of Isla’s room. “Are you alright?”

He blinked and wondered if he had misheard her. “I’m sorry?”

“Alphys described the situation to me. She seemed quite distraught at witnessing it. I know why it must have been much harder for you.”

So hard he had mentally gone to another place, another time. He had left Alphys alone with the responsibility of caring for Isla, who would have certainly died if not for medical intervention.

Toriel had not seen it, but of course she understood. She was the only other person who could understand.

“I…” he hesitated. “I am fine now. It… brought up some painful memories.”

She did not move or reply. Asgore could sense her hesitation. They made eye contact for perhaps half a second, then both glanced away. This had once been so easy, and now they were standing here barely able to look at one another, let alone talk to each other.

Toriel finally cleared her throat. “We must follow up on Isla,” she said. “This would be a good opportunity to remove her from political situations. Unless you have talked to her about that already.”

He winced. “…No. I tried to, but…”

“But you called her Chara before you could,” she finished for him, making him wince again. “Isla told me about it. I can see the resemblance, too. Their personalities are similar, but Isla is much more… assertive than Chara ever was.”

“She has done so much to assist us,” he said in meek protest. “I thought it would be ungrateful to ask her to step out of politics.”

“I know,” Toriel said. She did not sound impatient or annoyed. “But now we know she has been doing more than her health can handle. If she needs to cut back, it would be practical to have her keep doing the work she is good at and have her stop handling political situations. She already has a reputation.”

“I agree with you, she has been – to put it bluntly – very mean to a few people. Deservedness aside, you do not believe that her demeanor may have protected us at times?”

“Perhaps. There is no way to be sure. In initial reactions, it certainly may have prevented panicked, impulsive attacks. She is good at educating people. She is good with people in general, as long as they are calm. She is not good at handling anything that can be interpreted as the slightest bit physically threatening.”

That was true. Isla had a tendency to instantly shut down another person the moment she sensed hostility from them. Asgore did not feel like he had the right to blame her for it, because he suspected that something terrible had happened to her in her past – or maybe he was trying to draw parallels with Chara again.

Isla had highly-developed logical abilities. She could poke holes in others’ arguments and provide counterpoints much faster and more articulately than he ever could, but she was not good at political presentation. She was invaluable behind the scenes. It was a rare day when he did not solicit her advice.

Maybe this was better. He and Toriel could pull her from positions in which she might end up representing them and he wouldn’t have to tell her she was a poor politician. His rational mind told him the woman was tough and could handle some gentle constructive criticism, but he would feel better never having the conversation at all.

He nods. “You are right. I do want to keep her at the Embassy, but we can dial back her duties to something her health can handle.”

“We may need access to her, so she can stay at the Embassy. I know she sits in on meetings with us, and with you, when I cannot be there. I feel as though I am acclimated enough to human politicians to be comfortable without her presence. Do you?”

He hesitated, but he couldn’t tell whether she was implying she thought he was still incompetent. He would admit to being fairly clueless at first – the biggest conflict he’d had to deal with during his reign as king was the one he’d had with Toriel that resulted in their divorce. Otherwise, his decisions had been uncontested. Sometimes people had had questions, but it wasn’t the same as human politics. Humans were always challenging one another and their society was so large and complicated humans held many differing beliefs about how their society should be run. Isla had been the one to provide structure and explain to him what he had to expect.

“I can manage,” he replied. Isla _had_ to let some of it go. She had almost died. He clung to that thought. If telling her off would preserve her health, he decided he would do it. He had never so much as raised his voice at Chara, but she was not Chara. “I mean… perhaps she should still be there when we expect to discuss important issues. We can tell her that her job is to observe how others seem to react to particular topics. If we ask her to focus on that and not to speak, I believe she will comply.” He paused. “Apparently human politicians lie a lot. Not as much as they used to, I am told, but they do. She is better than me at detecting lies.”

Toriel nodded. “What else does she do?”

Asgore opened his mouth to reply. And promptly drew a blank. “I’m… not sure,” he admitted.

There was silence for just a beat. “You are what?” Toriel said flatly.

“I am unsure,” he repeated nervously. “I often ask her to see that certain things get done. I believed she had passed the task on to the appropriate individual, but perhaps she was doing everything herself.”

Another beat of silence passed. “So this happened right under your nose.”

That made him flinch, but she was right. “I… well, yes. Now that I’m thinking about it, she may have been responsible for the smoothness of the internal workings of the Embassy. She never said anything to me about picking up administrative responsibilities.”

Toriel sighed. “Of course she didn’t. That girl would choose not to sleep if the deprivation wouldn’t kill her.” She turned and began walking back to the waiting room where their friends were located. Asgore followed her. “When we return home, we are going to determine exactly how much work she was doing. I have a feeling she will be dropping much more than we currently expect.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re ‘kinda pregnant?’” I deadpan.

“Oh, shut up. I did two of those pee tests. They were both positive.”

“Okay. I assume you haven’t told the parents yet.”

“No. You’re the first.”

I blink. “You haven’t told your boyfriend.”

She cringes. “I don’t wanna make things weird. We had the relationship talk barely three months ago, and I’m suddenly supposed to say ‘yo by the way, I’m preggers now that I have you locked down?’”

“Come here.” I lead my sister into the kitchen. She likes booze, so often we’ll make girly drinks when we see each other, but that’s obviously off the table. I reheat some alfredo and put it in front of her.

“Did you want to talk about abortion?” I ask. “If you want to consider that, take time to think over it, but that’s not a decision you should put off for very long.”

“Here’s the thing,” she says. “I like Zach. A lot. I could actually maybe see myself settling down with him? And you know how I feel about settling down. We’ve talked about kids, so I know he wants kids, and I’d be up for kids, but the conversation had a ‘let’s revisit this later’ tone to it. I’m kinda scared shitless, but if he’s good with keeping it, I’d be good with keeping it, but I might completely blow that conversation and end up scaring him off.”

Shannon has only had two prior serious boyfriends. Both those relationships failed due to a combination of Shannon not wanting to settle down and the boyfriends’ inabilities to keep up with her. I’ve only met Zachary twice, but I know he teaches third grade at Toriel’s school and has been doing that for a year. Before that, he taught elementary schoolers in Cleveland. He is not unfamiliar with chaos.

“Think about it this way,” I say. “If he cannot sit down and have a mature conversation about this and instead he freaks out and immediately ends the relationship, is he worth it?”

She sighs, stuffs noodles into her mouth, and shakes her head.

“How far along are you?”

“Almost two months, I think. I’m not sure. My periods are whacky ‘cause I work out all the time.” She pouts. “Damn, I’m gonna have to stop exercising, aren’t I?”

“That’s a question for your doctor,” I say. “You should make a doctor’s appointment today. No matter what you choose, that’s the next step.”

“I never established care with a gynecologist when I moved,” she says. “Who do you see?”

“Someone down in Madison.” Though with the local hospital growing, they are hiring more and more specialists. I should look into shifting to doctors up here. I see a long list of specialists and it would be nice not to have to take a week-long trip to Madison twice a year for appointment after appointment for my biannual care. “I can ask Spencer if he knows anyone.”

“Do that, please.”

“Do you want me to come with you to your appointment?”

“No, I’ll tell Zach. He’ll probably be fine with it, it’s just… ugh, it feels so abrupt. I’ve been puking sometimes when I try to work out in the morning. Last week I sat down for a snack and ate a whole jar of dill pickles dipped in mayonnaise. I don’t even _like_ mayonnaise. Then this morning I realized it’s been a long time since I had a period and I had the _oh shit_ moment.”

Shannon knew what she was going to do when she came to me. She just wanted some comfort. “You’re going to be fine,” I tell her. “You’re twenty-seven. You have a stable, well-paying job and a healthy relationship. You’re healthy. Those are all factors in favor of a good outcome.”

She goes quiet for a moment, pushing noodles around on her plate with her fork. She hesitates, then says, “Did you ever know I felt like a fuck-up next to you? You were always so damn smart, then you got shot, and because of that the parents paid way more attention to you than they did to me. And I was a selfish dumb kid, so I wanted their attention. Yours, too, even though you were suffering so badly and I couldn’t understand it.”

“Shannon,” I say uncertainly. I knew about the attention disparity – I assumed that was what caused my sister’s rebellious streak. But we’ve never really sat down and talked about it. There was – no time. My brain went off the rails and then I was in intensive therapy and then I graduated high school and went to college and continued intensive therapy and continued to be in and out of the hospital for mostly surgical reasons and then I was… okay, but I had graduate studies and right after I got done with that I moved to a little town at the base of Mount Ebott.

“No, don’t,” she says. “Wait till I’m done. I didn’t really understand it until I was an adult and, shit, I look back on it now and feel guilty for resenting you at all. I don’t resent you anymore, I just want to be clear. And I don’t blame Mom and Dad for favoring you anymore. They did their best. I want to do my best, too. I look back and I can’t fathom doing what they did. It just – breaks my heart to try to imagine my kid being tormented by their own mind and memories, like you were.”

I’m kind of jittery. I will probably always become anxious when the worst parts of my experience with PTSD are brought up. “I get it,” I say. “It has the potential to become violent here. I understand if you want to move back home with Mom and—”

“What? No, you dumbass,” Shannon interrupts. “I’m not going anywhere.” She reaches for one of my hands, which are clenched into fists. “Hey,” she says, more softly. “I know it’s not easy for you to think about that stuff, and I’m sorry for bringing it up. All I wanted to say is I’m with you. I’m staying here. I know the rules. I know I have to stay on the monster end of the city. But you know what? This community is amazing, and anyone who refuses to see it or tries to ruin it is a fucking idiot. I couldn’t imagine going somewhere else to raise this damn kid. Anyway, every study that has covered the topic has provided evidence that monsters commit violent crime like _never_ , so it’s probably safer for kids here.”

That’s my line. I laugh a little, waiting for the urge to cry to go away. I’ve been obvious about my motivations to continue helping the Monster Movement. I’ve openly stated I view my motivations as selfish. Aside from the fact that some of the people I love most are monsters, I want humans to learn from their peaceful tendencies. I do not want more children to be killed or injured in mass shootings. I want us, as a species, to become better at being nonviolent.

Clawdia jumps up on my sister’s lap. Her little black head pops up over the table, amber eyes staring at me until they close when Shannon scratches her ears. She begins to purr. “Besides, Papyrus won’t let me move away,” she adds. “I bet he’ll want to be honorary uncle.”

 

* * *

 

It is winter, so Toriel is sitting by the fireplace when Asriel finds her. “Mom,” he says, voice the cadence it takes when he’s trying not to cry. “Chara’s puking again.”

She is up immediately. “Find your father,” she tells him.

She reaches the second floor in time to see the bathroom door open and Frisk with a hand raised, poised to knock. “I’m fine, Frisk,” Chara snaps. “You are making a big deal out of nothing.”

“Your stomach’s been hurting you for months,” Frisk replies stubbornly.

They both look at Toriel when she approaches. “My child, this has gone on for too long to be related to the illness you and Frisk had in December. I believe you should see a doctor.”

Chara’s eyes have narrowed to slits. “I’m not going to let some strange human poke and prod me.”

“Chara…” Frisk sighs. Toriel turns at the sound of Asriel and Asgore ascending the stairs.

“This does _not_ warrant worry,” Chara insists. “I’m not vomiting blood. I do not have pain constantly, and when I do it is insignificant to what I experienced when I ate buttercups. It’s not important.”

Asriel sniffles. “Chara, _you’re_ important. Please…”

Sometimes Chara speaks of their suicide so callously, as if they feel they need to remind the rest of them of it. As if they cannot believe their family would continue to love them after learning of it.

“This may not seem important right now,” Asgore says. “But it could become important if we allow it to get worse. Is it getting worse?”

Chara blinks at him, then lets out a breath in a defeated huff. “Yes.”

“Then we must do something about it,” Asgore continues. “Early intervention is less likely to be intrusive. It could save you pain down the line.”

“But – but sometimes Isla has abdominal pain, and sometimes they stick cameras up her butt and down her throat to see what’s going on. Sometimes they cut her open.” Chara usually speaks eloquently for a child their age, but this tumbles out of them. “I _can’t_ let anyone do that to me. I just – I _can’t_.”

Her soul hurts for them. “My child, you lack Isla’s injuries, and her injuries were severe. In comparison, this is mild. If a medical professional wanted to begin with such an invasive procedure, I would question their judgment. We will not begin with anything like that, I promise.”

“They’d probably start by getting a picture,” Frisk adds. “Pretty much all imaging involves holding still while a machine does the work. The person operating the machine isn’t even in the same room.”

“I know, Frisk,” Chara says irritably. “I have had x-rays.” They drop their chin and their bangs hide their eyes. “I hate this.”

Asriel sniffs again, hard. Asgore puts a hand on his shoulder. There, but not too overbearing. Asriel does not always take kindly to parental intervention when he is upset.

“We know,” Toriel says. “But this does not seem to be getting better on its own. If we allow you to become sicker, you may require emergency intervention, which would give you no time to prepare yourself. The earlier we address this, the more control we have over the situation.”

“I know.” They angrily scrub their sleeve over their eyes. “I know. I’ll do it. I still hate it.”

Frisk is the fastest. They go to Chara and wrap their arms around them. They are followed closely by Asriel, who is able to encompass them both in a hug, something easily achievable due to his recent growth spurt. “Thank you,” he says, voice clogged with tears.

Toriel glances at Asgore, and he at her. They redirect their children towards bed. Nobody protests, but they do all climb into Asriel’s bed together. It is evidence of Chara’s fatigue when they are the first asleep.

When she and Asgore close the door, she heaves out a sigh. “Let’s go have some tea,” Asgore suggests. “That usually makes me feel better.”

Toriel tries to turn her mind to practical matters. “We may have to obtain a new bed for Asriel, especially since it seems like our children will frequently share a bed into adulthood. Asriel is almost too tall for his current one. He is growing like a weed.”

She realizes what just came out of her mouth. “Oh,” she utters. “I didn’t mean…”

And she stops on the landing halfway down the stairs and raises a hand to her mouth and she tries to stop it but the attempt is futile. Not even three seconds after she starts to cry does she hear Asgore sniffle.

She lets out a watery laugh. “You always were the crier. You’re clearly where Asriel got it from.”

He tries to clear his throat and fails. “It’s going to be okay, Tori. We will figure this out.”

Because he knows she isn’t crying over her unintentional, awful pun. “It seems so unfair,” she whispers, “for this to happen now after everything Chara has been through. They don’t deserve this.”

“I know.”

“And to watch it impact Frisk and Asriel so heavily. I want them to be close and find joy and love in each other, but between the three of them they have so much pain to share. I am scared for them. Every challenge feels too soon and too big.”

“I know what you mean, Tori. I feel clueless sometimes, when I try to understand all they have gone through.”

She pauses to look at him. He gives a sad little chuckle. “I feel as though we were so good at parenting, once upon a time. Now I constantly second-guess my choices and my role. In some ways our children are older than we are. In some ways their pain is so, so much deeper. Since I cannot fathom it, I wonder if anything I can do can truly help them. And if I cannot help them… am I justified in calling myself their parent?”

In that moment, to hear her own thoughts and fears echoed back at her, she realizes he is the only other person who can truly and completely understand how she feels. She loved him for so long and so intensely that when they lost Asriel and Chara, she preferred the idealistic version of her husband to the one with flaws, the one who was hurting so badly all he could think to do was to hurt those who had hurt him.

If she could not love him at his worst, did she ever really love him at all?

“All I can do is love and support them to the best of my ability,” Asgore continues. “That is all you can do, too. We can only do our best. Sometimes it may not feel like enough, but those feelings are ours to handle. As long as we continue to love them and keep trying to make the world a better and safer place for them, I do not think there is anything more we could rationally ask of ourselves.”

 _Rationally_ being the key word. Emotions are not purely rational. Toriel steps forward and embraces him, resting her head against his shoulder. She feels him freeze instantly. “Hug me back, silly,” she murmurs, and sure enough, he does, squeezing her hard enough to lift her off the floor for a second. It makes her want to giggle like she’s a young girl again, but she is far, far too old for that.

 

* * *

 

Chara does very well at their doctor’s appointment. Frisk and Asriel join them for moral support. Asgore and Toriel bring Isla because she knows much more than they do about human medicine. The nurse and the doctor are both women, which is something Asgore believes contributes to Chara’s success – they tend to do better with human women and humans of smaller statures.

Frisk holds Chara’s hand while they have the physical exam done. The doctor pushes on their stomach in various places and asks them to describe the nature and location of their pain. It seems simple enough. The only two humans Chara feels comfortable touching are Frisk and Isla. That they are able to allow a human they do not know to touch them is an enormous step forward for them.

Chara is tense, but they ask the doctor what they are feeling for, and the doctor replies, explaining in terms a twelve-year-old can be expected to understand. And, well, Boss Monsters who have virtually no knowledge of human medicine aside from their own experiences. Toriel knows a little more than Asgore, but they both felt less-than-knowledgeable when Frisk and Chara were ill.

The doctor orders an MRI and tosses a few possible diagnoses back and forth with Isla that Asgore has never heard in his life. The MRI is not a problem because most of it is just Chara and the machine in a room by themself. They feel bolstered by their success with the physical examination and are relaxed throughout the procedure.

The results are the problem.

Toriel gets the phone call. When school lets out, she drops Frisk and Asriel off with Sans and Chara and comes to the Embassy. Asgore did not expect that. He expected her to tell him about the results when it was convenient for her, not to seek him out, so once she enters his office he figures she has bad news.

“Greetings,” she says softly. “I spoke with the doctor this afternoon.”

“Howdy,” he replies worriedly. “What did she have to say?”

She delicately perches on one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Scattered areas of Chara’s intestine are damaged. It is scar tissue. In two places, the scarring has thickened the walls so much that it has left only a narrow opening. This explains their symptoms.”

“Oh,” Asgore says. “So do we have a diagnosis?”

She grimaces. “Intestinal injury. This is from consuming buttercups, Asgore.”

He can vaguely remember lying in bed, pain roiling through him, weak because his magic and soul were pushed to their limits. He remembers Asriel coming in and sobbing out apologies. Asgore sat up as the room spun around him, mustered a smile in his son’s general direction, and assured Asriel that he would be alright in no time. It was okay, it had been an understandable mistake. No, it didn’t hurt that badly, he only felt weak and needed to rest to regain his strength.

Toriel announced his illness to the kingdom and asked their people to refrain from coming around. She knew he would want to socialize with them and he had no energy for that. All at the same time, she took care of him, their children, and monsterkind with the grace, generosity, and efficiency that had had him falling horns over feet in the first place.

But she could not be everywhere at once: during one night, Asgore dreamt that Chara came into his room, crying silently, only to whisper to him, “I’ll make it up to you,” and leave.

He knows now that was not a dream.

“What was their recommendation?” he asks, suddenly feeling much more tired than he did a few minutes ago.

“Well,” Toriel begins, “the good news is that they believe surgically removing the most severely scarred parts of their intestines may stop their symptoms entirely. It would be a single surgery and they would stay in the hospital for a few days at most, presuming no complications.”

“And the bad news is Chara would never consent to surgery,” he finishes for her. “Are there other treatment options?”

“My understanding is that once there is scar tissue, the only way to get rid of it is to remove it. The doctor said medications might help, but the scarring will be a problem until it is removed. If surgery will lead to the best outcome for their health, I want them to take it.”

“We can’t _make_ them, Tori.”

“I know. I just… do not know how we are going to convince them. I have already made an appointment with the surgeon so we can speak with them and hopefully become more informed. I did not schedule the surgery. If we are able to convince Chara, I do not expect it will be soon.”

“We can talk to Isla,” he says. “She has had six abdominal surgeries. She had parts of her intestines removed. She may be able to put them at ease.”

Toriel hesitates. “I… would not be so sure. Isla regards her medical requirements rather callously. She does not have the best relationship with her body.”

“Perhaps not, but she’s the only human whom Chara trusts with any kind of surgical history.”

“That is true. I will ask her, try to gauge her stress level. She has been busy lately.”

Asgore feels a smile try to work its way onto his face. “Yes, Shannon made the workplace announcement last week. Isla has been helping her look at apartment and house listings that would be better for a baby. Shannon and her boyfriend signed an online pledge Frisk told me about. Humans are declaring their intentions to remain unmarried until interracial couples can marry. It is a very neat way to show support.”

Toriel smiles gently and stands. “It is, and I am glad. I will wait for you to return home so we can speak with Chara together.”

He rises in order to open the door for her. “Thank you, Tori. I hope today goes well. I will see you in a few hours.”

“Yes. Goodbye.” She hovers in the doorway, waiting. Just as he becomes confused, she asks, “May I have a hug?”

And oh, there is the quirk of her eyebrow, the smile hiding in the crinkles at the corners of her eyes, and he instantly has to school his thoughts into more appropriate territory. Does she know what she does to him? Can she see the fluttering in his soul, the longing in his heart?

“Of course,” he replies, and steps forward to accommodate her. She smells nice and this feels right, they have shared thousands upon thousands of hugs like this one and he never forgot the way she felt against him, not once in their century-long separation, those hundred years he was a husband without a wife and a father without children. He tried to bury those memories under rage, under grief, under self-hate. He tried and failed.

That failure pained him for so, so long, but… perhaps now it can be a good thing.


	5. Self-esteem: a person’s overall emotional evaluation of their own worth.

Frisk was cautious around other humans, so it was good for them to play with another human child.

The girl was younger and smaller than Frisk, so they were unlikely to see her as a threat. She had a warm aura and a bright smile and was eager to play. She giggled at Flowey, even when he made snide, passive-aggressive remarks. She reminded Toriel of Asriel, except without Asriel’s timidity.

Frisk got along well with her and Toriel felt comfortable enough to allow the children to play on their own. She had always found cooking comforting. She could take these pieces and parts and bring them together into something totally different and delicious and that was fascinating. Feeding her loved ones was one of her favorite ways of expressing her love.

“Whatcha making?”

Kalene was right next to her. She had quiet feet. “Peanut butter and jelly rolls,” Toriel replied. “Pasta salad on the side.” A thought occurred to her. “Are you allergic to any foods, young one?”

“Nope! I like pasta salad. I can make it by myself, if we have leftover noodles in the fridge. Can I help? I can cut up cucumbers or tomatoes or peppers. I can cut up anything!”

Toriel hesitated. She had let Chara cut up fruits and vegetables in the kitchen after they fell. They had been close to Kalene’s age. But Chara had been hers and this was somebody else’s child. It was important to hold children to consistent and fair rules, so she should apply Kalene’s father’s rules, not her own.

“Does your father allow you to chop things at home?” she asked. She kept her voice gentle. Softening her voice could help humans relax. Her appearance and size could be understandably intimidating to a human who had never seen a large monster up close. That was part of the reason she had immediately taken to Kalene: she had not been scared. Surprised, yes, even awed, but not afraid.

The other part of that reason was her urge to mother motherless children, but that was another matter.

“I cook a lot at home,” Kalene said. “By myself, sometimes. Dad’s been teaching me lots of different things. He leaves notes all over the kitchen when he won’t be there so I don’t forget to put salt in the water or turn the burners off when I’m done.”

If she was allowed to cook unsupervised, there was no reason that she could not cook supervised. “Yes, you may help. Please…”

Before she can tell the girl to wash her hands, she was at the sink, washing her hands. What an eager little helper.

Toriel got her Frisk’s footstool. Kalene was not short for her age, but the counters had been installed with Toriel’s height in mind. She gave the child a cutting board, a knife, and a cucumber, and within seconds of watching she could tell Kalene was practiced in this.

“What are Frisk and Flowey doing?” she asked.

“Frisk said Flowey had to take a nap before dinner,” Kalene replied. “I thought I’d come help you. That way, dinner can come sooner and we can go back to playing faster!”

Toriel took that to mean Flowey and his temperament needed a break from Kalene’s energy. Frisk had probably sensed that and intervened before Flowey said anything regretful.

“I see,” Toriel said. “Tell me, Kalene, are you often home alone?”

“I can watch myself just fine,” Kalene was quick to assure her. She did so without breaking stride with the knife and cucumber. “I lock all the doors when I get home from school and do my homework. If Dad still isn’t home by five, I start dinner. Gramma used to watch me, but she died a couple years ago so now it’s just me and Dad.”

That could not be good for her. She was only seven; no matter how self-sufficient she was, she needed supervision and guidance. But Isla had told her this child’s father was a single parent, and from Toriel’s understanding, the humans of this country were not provided a long enough leave from work for children. They frequently could not afford to quit jobs to be home with their children. It was befuddling that the humans in charge would not address that.

“Are you having fun with Frisk and Flowey?” Toriel asked.

At this Kalene looked up at her, smiling wide and nodding vigorously. “We’re having _so_ much fun, Miss Toriel. I don’t really have friends in school, so I didn’t even know I could have this much fun with somebody else. Frisk is kinda quiet, and Flowey’s kinda grouchy, but that’s okay! I think we just need to play more and get used to each other.”

Oh, she was sweet. She seemed perfectly comfortable in the kitchen, so perhaps it was not a mistake on her father’s part to give her cooking responsibilities. Perhaps she was lonely. Perhaps other children her age seemed childish to her, and that was why she had attached herself to Frisk so quickly.

Toriel decided to ask Isla to introduce her to Kalene’s father so she could offer to have her come over on occasion. She would ask Frisk first, of course, though she very much doubted Frisk would have anything negative to say about their new playmate. Flowey… hm. Flowey was difficult to predict. He could be mellow one day and angry the next.

Toriel did not examine her thoughts on the matter too closely. She would talk to the children. She did not need to dwell on whatever it was about Flowey that felt uncomfortably familiar.

 

* * *

 

Chara shrinks when they tell them. Their mouth presses into a tight line. “I can’t do that,” they finally say. “I know this is disappointing for you, and I am sorry. But I cannot do it.”

“I made an appointment with the surgeon,” Toriel says gently. “At the very least, we want you to talk to them. See what they have to say.”

“Okay. I will go, but it will be a waste of time. You cannot expect me to knowingly make myself vulnerable to human strangers.”

“It is your choice, Chara,” Asgore says. “We would never decide that for you.” Which is why Chara must make the decision. “We are not trying to frighten you, but we have to consider that this could get worse. If this escalates, we may not have time for you to get ready. It is possible that you could require emergency surgery.”

“We doubt we are near that point as of now, but it is not unlikely,” Toriel adds. “There are treatments that can delay the process, but they are not curative and they do not always work from patient to patient.”

Chara is staring at their feet, eyes shadowed by their bangs. Asgore exchanges a worried look with Toriel. Keeping this from Chara was never an option. It is their body; they deserve to know. Neither of them expected Chara to react _well_ , but… Asgore would have preferred crying or a temper tantrum over this. They are so unmoving.

“I understand,” Chara says woodenly. “I just… I can’t. I am sorry.”

“My child, it is alright,” Toriel says softly. “Are you sure you are okay with seeing the surgeon?”

She rises and makes to walk around the table, but Chara pushes their chair out and stands, too. “If you want me to go, I will. It will be a waste of time, so if you wish to cancel it, I will not blame you.”

They turn and walk into the foyer. Their pace is slow, with perfect rhythm and not a single superfluous movement. It is almost as if they are marching.

Once they are out of earshot, Asgore turns to Toriel. Her shoulders sag and her muzzle drops. “This was the first step,” he tells her, but he feels like he is mostly trying to convince himself. “We must be patient. Allow them to consider their options.”

“Do we go be with them now?” Toriel asks. “Do we have Frisk and Asriel keep them company? Or do we allow them some time alone?”

He hesitates, too. “I… am not sure. Perhaps Frisk or Asriel will be better able to gauge their needs. But first, I would like to call Isla.”

 

* * *

 

It was supposed to be a short conversation. I planned to get Chara’s take on the situation, but when I walk into their and Frisk’s room, Chara is sitting on the edge of their bed and they have their knife out and their sleeves are rolled up and they are shaking with their head bowed.

They don’t even move when I open the door. Slowly, I step into the room, and slowly, I close the door.

“Chara,” I say.

They are holding the knife so tightly their knuckles are white. “My fault,” they mutter.

They haven’t cut themself yet. “Chara,” I say again, “can you put down the knife?”

They don’t move. Watching them is eerie because they’re trembling except for their knife hand, which is perfectly still. Practiced. It’s a combination of their habits and my teachings.

I try again. “Chara, please. I’m not going to take it from you, but I need you to put it down.”

There is another long moment in which nothing happens. Then they extend their arm and slowly, slowly rest their knife down on the bed next to them. Sans helped them pick out that knife out for their twelfth birthday. I’ve been teaching them how to defend themself with it. I cannot have them self-harming with it. I don’t want them self-harming at all, but if they have to, it cannot be with that knife.

I stay at the door. “If you absolutely need to, I will get you a scalpel. But I don’t think you need to, and we’re definitely going to talk about it first, okay?”

There is another long, long pause. I count in my head. I knead the side of my right armpit with a couple of fingers. I can feel a lump, but I probably won’t look too closely at it. My lymph nodes blow up for no discernable reason sometimes.

It’s a full two minutes before I ask, “Can I come over there, Chara?”

This seems to wake them up, and they lift their head just enough that I can see their wide, unblinking eyes and tight, uncomfortable smile. “This is my fault,” they say, voice low, trancelike. They slam their closed fist into their sternum. “Mine.”

“What’s your fault?” I already know, but my presumptions should not be part of this conversation.

“I ate the buttercups,” they say. “The buttercups made me bleed inside and now sometimes I cannot eat and they want me to let myself be _fixed_ but that would involve strangers putting their hands _in me_ and costing them money and wasting their time and I cannot do this to them anymore, I cannot keep being a burden and hurting them with my useless _existence_. I have done that _enough_.”

I want to interrupt halfway through, but I make myself wait until they are done. “This is a result of your consumption of buttercups,” I say slowly. “You ate them to kill yourself. There was no way you could have predicted coming back to life with scarred intestines. You cannot logically blame yourself for failing to predict that.”

“It is suitable that I must deal with the consequences of my actions. That is fine. It is not fine that this continues to impact everyone else.”

Chara has struggled just as much with their suicide as they have with their early childhood. This conversation will not help them make leaps and bounds in processing it. They have gone back and forth; getting better, then having symptoms again. The time during which they are better is consistently getting longer. Looking long-term, they have begun a slow, arduous journey of recovery, but still – after two years – it is just the beginning.

The most practical use of this time, right now, is to get them to seriously consider surgery. “Chara,” I say. “I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but you need to plan for that surgery.”

There is a pause, then they let out a short, stilted laugh. “I do not understand. You know. You know more than anyone else why I cannot do that.”

“You’re right. I know. I know that allowing human strangers to touch you while you’re in a chemically-induced sleep is unthinkable to you. Do you know what the alternative is?”

It isn’t exactly a nice look they’re giving me, but I have their attention. “You take medications. You get blood drawn to check your med levels. You have imaging studies done every so often to make sure it isn’t getting worse. You see a doctor at least once a year so they can order your meds, labs, and imaging. Every time you deal with the medical system, every time you have physical symptoms, you are reminded of your suicide. And that’s assuming it doesn’t get worse.

“If it does, your symptoms worsen, you have appointments more frequently, you might try different medications, hell, your immune system might misstep once and land you with a chronic health condition. You will be in pain. Your family will not let you die again, Chara. If this becomes life-threatening, we will make sure you receive proper medical care. If it comes to that, we will have no time to prepare you and you will not be able to control a single aspect of your treatment. It’s better for you that we plan this. I truly believe you will regret it if you don’t.”

“I cannot do it again.” Their breathing is quickening and growing shallow. “I cannot allow myself to be at the mercy of human adults. I _cannot_. I would rather die, Isla. I would rather choke on buttercups again.”

“Chara.” I approach them, but I stop when I’m five feet away from them and I sit on the floor. “I know it’s unfair, I know you feel cornered, I know your options seem impossible, and I know this _sucks_. What you are experiencing now is very similar to one of my many symptoms, but I will always have a multitude of specialists and appointments and procedures and medications. I will always have pain and shit joints and a self-destructive immune system and dysfunctional organs and scar tissue everywhere. I will always feel like my body is constantly failing me, but _you don’t have to_. I know I’m pushing you towards something you think is worse than death, but I’m doing it because I don’t want my medical life for you. You deserve better than what I have.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t fucking cry, I need to be strong for this child, I need to not cry over something I’ve had to deal with for almost two decades, I need to tough this out and wait until later to get stoned, I need to—

Chara buries their face in their hands and starts to sob. For a moment, I hold my breath, trying not to follow their lead, but instead of reaching for the knife again, they step forward and fall onto their knees. Without hesitating, they climb into my lap so they can bawl into my shoulder, and it is at that point I lose it and begin to cry into their hair.

It takes a long time for us to both calm down. My feet are numb because they are sitting on my legs. I refuse to move. It’s rare for them to let anyone other than Frisk or Asriel touch them for this long. I could stand to hold them for much longer. It makes me feel like I can protect them.

Finally, Chara lifts their head and whispers, “I hate it. I hate it and I can’t promise anything. But I will try.”

 

* * *

 

My sister is due in September. Her boyfriend took the baby news well. I have seen a lot of them over the past couple of months as they look for a family-sized apartment, shop for baby things, and search for baby names. Zachary’s father is part Filipino and has some Native American ancestry and his mother is Irish. Our dad is Irish, too, so they’re looking at Irish names.

Once I get to know him better, I ask him to come to the lab to get his soul read. Toriel surreptitiously has all the human teachers and students at her school scanned for EXP – she had to talk herself into that one. She hates discriminating against humans in that way, but I told her it was no different than having background checks done on employees before they start their jobs. She knows it is necessary.

As far as Zachary is concerned, this is his first time being scanned. He throws purple, but more interesting is his lower soul strength.

“You’ve got a mage descendant,” I tell Shannon.

“Whoo!” She punches the air. “So my kid’s gonna have monster ancestry?”

“Very, very far back. That’s the working hypothesis, anyway.”

When Zachary comes out of the scanner, I ask, “Has part of your family been in this area for a long time?”

“I think so,” he replies. “That would be my dad’s dad.”

That seems to be a common point among people with low-strength souls. It makes sense. The war was hundreds of years ago, so the ancestors of people with presumed mage ancestry would have lived near monsters before the war.

I should have somebody contact everyone with a low-strength soul we have in our database. We should call them back in and take DNA. We will have to take DNA from people with normal-strength souls, too, in order to make comparisons. It would be exciting to find a genetic link between all these seemingly unrelated people with low-strength souls. I can’t imagine there were many human-monster offspring, so some of these people might actually be related to one another. At any rate, it would be nice to get more data – any data – because right now there isn’t much evidence in favor of accepting or rejecting the mage-descendant hypothesis.

I get home late that night. Chara’s surgery has not been scheduled yet – Toriel and Asgore want to wait until they say they feel ready instead of giving them a deadline. I have been spending extra time with them to prepare them. Chara is studious and enjoys learning. Whenever something bothers them, their first response is often to research it, so simply educating them will often buffer their anxiety.

The living room lights are off. Sans is on the couch, snoozing. I can hear Papyrus banging around in the kitchen. I turn a lamp on, sit on the cushion next to Sans, and shake his shoulder. “Hey.”

He grumbles, eyesockets opening. He yawns. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you about something, but it’s not urgent. Do you want to go to bed now?”

“Nah. The nap revitalized me. I’m listening.”

I have put this off long enough and with how busy I am, I’m not going to get a better opportunity than this. “Okay. I’m just going to throw some observations out there. It seems to me that when you disagree with me, you don’t say anything. When there are decisions to be made, you let me make them, every time. The last time you disagreed with me was when Chara came back. That was a really long time ago. So… is this something you’re doing consciously? Is this a problem to you, or am I seeing something that isn’t really there?”

He sits silently for a few seconds. Then he removes his hands from his hoodie pockets and stands, miming stretching, before turning to face me. I stay where I’m perched on the couch.

“Here’s where I am with this,” he says. “It’s easy for me to decide I want what you want. You go after what you want. You have good reasons for most of your desires. So if I want what you want, I get what I want without really having to do anything. I did the same thing to Paps for a long, long time. I’m doing it to both of you now. With Chara, I _really_ messed up. I totally misread the kid and you got it spot-on. I thought they were a homicidal psychopath. You told me you thought someone had hurt them and you were right. I was wrong. So… I’m more likely to be right and get what I want if I just go along with you.”

At least he’s talking. Usually getting him to talk requires a lot of patience. “You were the one who got through to Chara. I might have been right about them, but my methodology was flawed. You were able to give them what they needed.”

“Only ‘cause I spent timeline upon timeline slaughtering them.” His shoulders hunch. “This is a problem. I know it’s unhealthy and I’ve been thinkin’ about it for a while. I… don’t wanna end up resenting you. I wanna fix it, but I know I’m gonna be unsure of myself, especially if I make shitty choices.”

“Good. It’s always good to have goals for yourself. And you deserve that; you take care of Papyrus and me all the time. For both of us you’re the biggest source of emotional support.” I pause. “Are you aware that I have trouble reading you?”

Made him blink. “Really?”

“Yeah. It’s been that way from the beginning. I can’t read you nearly as well as I can read other people.”

“Heh. Nah, I didn’t know that.”

“I still feel like I’m bad at it, which means I shouldn’t be making assumptions about what you want. We need to communicate more frequently. I like to be in control, and I think that’s your preference, too, but I shouldn’t be controlling _everything_.” I look at him for a moment. “Have… you been assuming I knew what you wanted and disregarded it?”

“No,” he says quickly. “No, I just… the idea of someone prioritizing me is weird. So I guess it just never crossed my mind to expect you to go along with what I wanted. Whenever you do anything I say, it seems like a bonus to me.”

“Sans, you’re more than worth it. You need to feel like you’re worth it. I want you to tell me what you want, even if you think it’s stupid. I can’t promise to agree with everything, but I can promise to listen to everything.”

He hesitates visibly, but, to my relief, he opens his mouth. “I… heh. Okay. Can I start telling you what I want now? I have a few things in mind.”

“Yes.” This must have been in his head for a long time if he knows right away what he wants to say.

“I… think I wanna tell the others about Gaster. I’ve been talking ‘bout it with Paps. Alphys and Asgore, at the very least, because they interacted with him and stuff when he was here.”

“Okay. That’s very much between you and Papyrus, but I think it’s a good idea. It will probably help you both feel better in the long run.”

He rubs his skull. “Maybe. It still feels weird, other people knowing. Papyrus knowing. I thought something would change, but there hasn’t been anything big.”

“Even the knowledge can’t bring the memories back completely, can it?”

“No. Not that there’s much to remember anyway. Gaster was rarely home with Papyrus.”

Between Sans, Papyrus, Frisk, and Chara, I’ve realized how lucky I was with my birth parents. My parents may have been clueless when my mind tried to destroy me, but they did their best. I should not have to consider myself lucky. Parents should always try their best with their kids. Parents should make sacrifices and try to leave the world better than they found it for their children.

“And you were,” I say softly.

His grin softens, becomes more genuine, the way it always does when he thinks about his brother. “I was.” He reaches out with both hands, so I give him mine. “The PI I work for at the college. He told me I should go back to school so I can teach. Be a professor and shit.”

“Is that something you want to do?”

“I think so. Workin’ in the lab is fun. Workin’ with the undergrads is fun. We have some awesome kids at the college. The humans are almost always cool, since they know what they’re signing up for when they apply. I don’t know about doing my own research, though. That sounds like a lotta work.”

“So don’t. Help other professors out with their work. Co-author papers with them. Eventually you might decide to run an experiment or two yourself, but you can focus on teaching, if that’s what you want. How long will you have to be a student?”

“A year, if I play it right. I’ll TA one or two of the physics courses. I’ve already got the degree, so I just need to take some courses in higher education.”

“If you think you’ll enjoy it, go for it.” I pause. I haven’t apologized, have I? “Sans… I’m sorry about all this. If you felt like you couldn’t speak up to me about anything, I was obviously being a shitty partner. I want to do better for you. I want—”

“Hang on,” he interrupts. “You don’t get to blame yourself for this anymore than I do. We were both behaving in not-so-healthy ways that enabled the other person’s behavior. It’s going to require effort from both of us. It wasn’t entirely one person’s fault. Mmkay?”

It’s kind of funny, to hear something I would say out of him. “Okay,” I laugh. “You’re right. Got anything else for me?”

“Yeah. We haven’t talked much about it, but when interracial marriage becomes legal, I want us to be the first.”

“That will be difficult to plan in advance when we don’t know when it’ll happen.”

He looks scandalized. “I don’t want a wedding. You said sweatpants and elopement. We get legalized and we elope. Simple.” He hesitates. “Is that… still what you want?”

“Yes. A massive romantic ceremony wouldn’t be fitting, would it?”

“We can have a party after and see who can play the most pranks on our guests.”

“Now that’s totally us. I can get behind that.”

“Good. Might as well plan now, ya know?”

And then he goes down on one knee, head dipped, and my brain comes to a jarring stop.

…And then he lifts his head, grins, and says, “Sorry, slipper was untied.”

I immediately devolve into a combination of gasping and laughing. “You little _shit_! Your slippers don’t have laces! I thought you were going to propose!”

“Nope. You’re gonna propose to me, remember?”

I fall sideways on the couch. “And what kind of proposal would you like? Something public? Something creative?”

He stands, hands back in his pockets. “Don’t care. Surprise me.”

“Ooohhh, maybe I’ll get Mettaton to help me out. He’ll make it memorable.”

His grin flickers in fear. “Don’t you dare.”

I smirk. “We’ll have sparkle confetti cannons and possibly a song and dance number and fireworks and—”

He climbs on top of me and pinches my arm. “You’re shit at singing,” he points out, then begins making high-pitched noises when I tickle him. He pins me to the couch, trying to elbow my hands away from his ribs.

Papyrus is drawn into the room by the giggling. “ACK!!!” He promptly grabs a throw pillow and begins beating us with it, halting our half-assed wrestling in its tracks. “NO!!! YOU MAY NOT HAVE INTERCOURSE ON THIS COUCH!!! GO UPSTAIRS!!!”

Sans rolls off me onto the floor. I push myself to my feet and skirt around Papyrus, laughing. He hits me with the pillow, which gives Sans a chance to get up. The noise draws the cats into the room. Clawdia and Jennifur sit down to watch, but Picatso darts right in and leaps into the air, trying to sink his claws into the pillow Papyrus is flailing about. He misses and lands on the couch, then turns and meows irritably at Papyrus.

I reach the stairs first. Papyrus throws the pillow at us. “You will leave this couch alone!!!” he insists. “I sit here!!! Our friends sit here when they come over!!! CHILDREN SIT ON THIS COUCH, YOU TWO!!!”

Sans stops on the stairs and says gloatingly, “Yeah, and even they pet a pussy or two when they sit there.”

Papyrus gasps in horror. “SANS!!! DON’T YOU _DARE_ USE OUR PRECIOUS FURBABIES AND THE KIDS AS MATERIAL FOR YOUR DIRTY PUNS!!!”

I am holding onto the railing, laughing too hard to stand up straight. “But, Papyrus, they call it a loveseat for a reason—”

“NOOOO!!!” He slaps his hands on either side of his skull. “NOT YOU TOO!!! JUST GO BONE ON YOUR BED!!!”

When he stomps off to the kitchen, Sans and I share a high-five. It is a glorious end to a long day.


	6. Disease: disorder of structure or function that impairs normal functioning of the body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I've said this yet, but I welcome questions and predictions. Nearly everything in this series is already planned out and obviously I won't give a direct answer if it results in spoilers. I especially welcome medical questions, since this is a medicine-heavy series.

England was easily Asgore’s favorite stop. Everyone kept giving them tea. All these different kinds of tea and these hard little cookies that could be dunked into the tea until they softened. Several young members of the British Royal Family took joy in showing them how to do that.

They were staying in the palace that night, which was unnecessarily huge and ornate. A photographer came and snapped picture after picture. They asked Asgore and Toriel to pose with the human royals. It was alright. Asgore was starting to realize that perhaps humans had a bit of an unfounded fetish for royalty. Or maybe it was just the wealth. They tried not to flaunt it, but during the Surfacing, they had been upfront about their currency and the human media had mentioned it a few times.

He didn’t know whether it was the impromptu photoshoot or the change in time zones, but he was not feeling well. He was tired. Not tired in the way he had been tired Underground. That had been exhaustion borne of living alone, locked in a war he had started. This was different. It weighed on his soul, too, but this was unsettlingly familiar. Why could he not name this when it felt so familiar?

That night, before they separated for bed, Asgore pulled Toriel aside. “I am sorry if I seemed distant from our hosts this evening.” Because it was his job to do the bulk of the socializing. As king, that was the area in which he was most skilled. “I am not feeling my best.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I was beginning to feel a little unwell, too. I hope we are not catching something.”

“The rest of our retinue seems fine. Undyne is alright. She would let me know if she felt sick.”

“Let’s hope they stay that way. Perhaps all we require is a good night’s rest.”

Asgore realized force of habit had compelled him to tell Toriel. He had not needed to say anything. He only felt a little weary, he was perfectly capable of handling that on his own.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Goodnight, Tori. I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Don’t be,” she replied. “Get some sleep. We need to be well-rested this week.”

 

* * *

 

The surgeon, Dr. Khan, is tall with thick-rimmed glasses and skin about the same color and tone as Frisk’s. His hair is completely grey, so he is probably old. ‘Probably’ because Isla has grey in her hair, too, and she is not old. She likes to say she is old, but she is incorrect.

He hums when he walks into the exam room, introduces himself to them, and does not comment when Chara presses against Toriel’s side and will not make eye contact. She can sense a… hint of positivity from him. There is no readily apparent hate or malice within his soul. This is only a tiny amount that she can glean from this new person, but so far, so good.

After he sits down at the desk, the first thing he says is: “Question: robotic or traditional?”

His voice has a hint of an accent Toriel does not recognize. “I beg your pardon?” she asks.

Dr. Khan smiles. “I think Chara would be a good candidate for robotic surgery, Queen Toriel. Have you heard of it?”

“I have not.” She looks down at Chara. “Have you?”

They are frowning, but they look less scared and more thoughtful. “Yes. It’s when a robot does the surgery instead of a human. It has cameras on it, so the surgeon watches a screen fed into by those cameras and controls the robot.”

“Ah,” Toriel says. “Not a robot like Mettaton.”

“Not sentient like Mettaton,” Chara confirms. “This one is a machine. A piece of equipment. It has tools attached to it.”

Dr. Khan beams, plucks a pamphlet off his desk, and hands it to Toriel. “That’s correct! This does a fair job explaining the basics, and it has pictures so you can actually see the robot. What do you think?”

Toriel glances at Chara, who is sitting up and making eye contact with the other human without a trace of fear. “I would likely prefer robotic surgery. May I ask a few questions?”

“Ask away,” Dr. Khan replies cheerfully. Toriel smiles and leans back to allow the humans to converse.

 

* * *

 

Asgore spends most of March in discussions with the local politicians. The citizenship debate has always been part of the conversation, but they have seen virtually no progress in that direction in years. Instead, the Monster Movement has turned its attention to individual rights. Asgore and Frisk’s latest project has been legalizing the use of combat magic in self-defense. The magic restriction is so strict that any human tried for harming or killing a monster without witnesses only has to claim the monster used magic on them to walk free. It has been incredibly frustrating and, above all, tragic.

He is drafting a possible resolution for this issue when there is a knock on his office door. “Howdy!” he calls. “Come on in!”

It’s his son. “Howdy, Dad,” Asriel says. “I don’t mean to be a bother, but I need a ride to the hospital. Lena called me. She’s been at the hospital with her dad since last night. He was admitted this morning. Can she stay with us until her dad gets out?”

Asgore frowns. He is obviously not privy to what goes on in the lives of his children’s friends, but he knows that Ezra is frequently ill. “Of course, my son. This is not a bother. Let’s go get your friend.”

Asriel continues to text Kalene on the ride over. Asgore does not even have the van in park when Asriel opens the door and darts through the main entrance. He comes back out forty-five seconds later with an arm around Kalene, guiding her because her head is ducked. They get into the backseat together.

As soon as the door closes, Asriel pulls one of her hands down and says, “Okay, _now_ will you tell me what this is from?”

In the rearview mirror, Asgore can see a dark bruise on the left side of the human’s jaw. “When Dad had the seizure, he flailed and smacked me.” She pushes Asriel’s hands away. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Asriel lifts a hand back to her face, healing magic bursting from his palm. “Oh my gosh, Lena.”

“It’s not his fault.” Her eyes are starting to go wide. “You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? _Please_ don’t tell anyone, I told everyone in the emergency room I tripped in my hurry to get to a phone, they must’ve asked me about it ten times—”

“No, of course we won’t tell!” Asriel says hastily. “I – I meant that he walloped you pretty good, is all. I healed it, but it’s still a little green. We won’t tell anyone. Right, Dad?”

“We will tell Isla,” Asgore replies. He looks both ways and pulls onto the road. “She will need to know for your father’s next appointment, Kalene. But there is no point in telling anyone else, since it sounds like it was an accident.”

“Back up for a moment,” Asriel says. “You dad had a seizure?”

“Last night. He’s been acting weird all week – shutting himself in his room and not wanting to see me and muttering to himself – so I brought him food last night and I badgered him until I found out he hasn’t been sleeping again, and – and we started to argue and he f-fell over and I ran to him and—”

Her voice begins wobbling halfway through. Asriel notices the tears and embraces her, at which point she cuts herself off and cries in earnest. Gosh, she is much too young to be dealing with this. He should probably talk to Toriel and Isla about Ezra. This does not sound like it requires an intervention, exactly, but perhaps they should make themselves more available for when Ezra becomes temporarily unable to care for Kalene. Kalene is bright and very capable; her father has had three episodes that required his hospitalization in the past five years and every time she ended up taking care of him. She can do it, but she is still a child, so she should not have to.

Their first stop is Kalene’s so she can pack some of her belongings. Asriel goes inside with her. Asgore cannot help but be proud of him because of how well he is taking care of his friend. When they get home, Asriel takes Kalene directly upstairs. He and Frisk planned on spending much of their spring break at the Embassy, but Asgore expects they will both want to be here for Kalene while her father is ill.

Toriel and Chara are in the living room, knitting. Asgore tells Toriel about the situation with Kalene and her father.

“Oh, the poor dear,” Toriel says. She stands. “Of course she can stay as long as need be. I will go speak with her.”

“Give her a moment, Mom,” Chara says without looking up. “If she was upset, she will need time to cry on Asriel for a bit.”

Toriel pauses. “Have you told Isla?” she asks Asgore. “She did extra work with Ezra following his previous two hospitalizations. She will want to know.”

“Not yet, but I will,” he says. “I will call her on my way back to the Embassy.”

There is an awkward moment in which Toriel shifts as if to approach him and stops, knitting needles still in hand. Does she – want a hug? She has hugged him more than once lately, should he – no, no, that would be silly, to embrace her while she is holding her knitting, and anything else – anything more – would be out of the question—

He notices Chara looking at them, one eyebrow raised. Toriel notices, too, and hastily reclaims her seat. “Goodbye,” Asgore says quickly, and none-too-subtly books it out of there.

 

* * *

 

When I’m told about Ezra, I call him. He does not want me to visit him in the hospital. He doesn’t even want anyone to bring Kalene by. He tells me he has had seizures in response to sleep deprivation before, but why mention this now and not after his other two hospitalizations? He knows I have medical problems; he knows I can empathize. He won’t tell me if they have a diagnosis or what sorts of medications they are using. He’s a reticent person, but usually whenever I ask him a direct question, he will do his best to answer, so this is odd.

Kalene is… okay. I only really see her in the context of her father’s treatment or when she spends time with the kids, so I’m not entirely sure of what her normal is. I’m beginning to wonder if her relationship with her father is healthy. They clearly love one another. I know that if Ezra had the time and the resources, he’d spoil her rotten. But he doesn’t have those things, and Kalene’s response to the recent instability of his mental and physical health has been to attempt to deal with everything on her own and take care of him. She shouldn’t be doing that.

Something else I notice is that the kids focus in on Kalene and how she is doing while simultaneously reporting less psychological distress themselves. It takes a week for me to put the pattern together. I think they may be subconsciously choosing to pay attention to her current problems as a way of distracting themselves from their own, but it’s… not something they can do forever, so I note it and move on. If any of them decide to keep searching for distractions after her father is discharged, I will bring it up, but it is perfectly fine to require a break and pretend everything is okay for a little while. It’s part of healing.

Just after Ezra recovers and settles back into a typical schedule, Alphys calls me from the lab, explaining that one of the professors from the college brought his class in for a field trip. For fun, they got their souls scanned. Nobody has EXP, but one student came up colorless.

I stay on my phone as I get into my car. “Have you told her what we think this means?”

“Y-yeah. She’s upset. She, uh, started talking about suicide literally a-as soon as I told her. I told the professor to t-take his class and go, was that a good idea? It’s too l-late now, b-but—”

“Yes, that was the right thing to do. Don’t leave her alone. I’m already on my way. Tell her she’s safe and we’re going to take care of her.”

“Should I t-tell her this is extremely rare?”

“No. She might ask what happened to others with colorless souls, and telling her the other two killed themselves will not help her at this point in time. Her mood needs to be stabilized and improved before she receives that information.”

To be fair, we had no idea the first two seriously needed help. We got their initial readings weeks from one another and we thought something was wrong with the scanner since it wasn’t reading their soul colors. Sans and Alphys took the scanner apart, put it back together, and ran diagnostics. The first insisted up and down nothing was wrong with him and refused to come back, but the second came back and the readings were the same. No color. We see no color in young human children, but they always develop a color as they mature. Always.

The first killed himself before we could conclude the scanner was fine and the colorless readings were correct. The second killed themself hours before I tried to call them to tell them their colorlessness probably meant they needed to undergo a complete psychiatric workup and enter intensive therapy. It was then we realized it was likely they had a color, but had somehow lost it. Low brightness correlates with poor mental health, after all, and as brightness decreases, a human soul begins to look grey. To lose its color.

We need more data. We also need to help this student before she follows her predecessors.

When I get there, it’s to see the student sobbing on Alphys with Alphys trying to awkwardly embrace her. I take over in the comforting department because Alphys tends to be uncomfortable in close contact with someone she doesn’t know well.

It’s a long time before she calms down, and when that happens, she is clearly dissociating. Her mood is flat. She protests weakly when I tell her she needs to go to the ER, but I after I explain to her what is going to happen over the next few days, she is… not content, but accepting of the situation. At the very least, she is so drained she cannot do anything but comply.

I cannot let her go unsupervised after she expressed suicidal ideation. She needs to be medically cleared and someone else needs to do a psychiatric intake. I tell her that, as long as she doesn’t try to hurt herself or anyone else and is generally cooperative, she should be released into outpatient therapy quickly. At that point, I can get her set up with a psychologist or psychiatrist. I cannot treat her myself. My expertise is more likely to be useful if it is used in contribution to the case study I need to get her to agree to as a colorless soul. Since this is a new phenomenon, I want it to be as scientifically sound as possible, which means reducing bias where I can.

She does a lot of nodding. My guess is she will be in the psych ward in the hospital for a couple of days. I need to talk to her again, after she gets some rest and her mind is clearer.

After the drive to the hospital, Alphys asks me, “Do you th-think she’ll be okay?”

“It’s too early to tell,” I reply, “but she let us help her. It went well for a crisis.”

There is a pause. Then Alphys says, “She probably w-won’t be able to finish out the semester, will sh-she? That’s too bad…”

“School should be a secondary concern to her wellbeing.”

“Y-yeah, but… when you feel like that, every obstacle can s-s-seem so much w-worse, even the slightest setback can b-be completely overwhelming… then you f-feel even worse than you already do, and you g-get caught in this awful feedback cycle…”

I know Alphys used to have cripplingly powerful depression and social anxiety. They are things she still struggles with, but I am under the impression she is much better now. When the barrier fell, she was already getting better. She has talked to me about it a handful of times over the years, but she only ever implied that she also had issues with suicidal feelings. I never asked directly, so until now, I never knew for sure.

“If you know how she’s feeling and you want to, I can probably arrange for you to talk to her when she gets out of the hospital,” I say.

“O-oh!” I’ve startled her. “I wouldn’t p-presume to be helpful…”

“Sometimes just knowing someone else understands how you feel is helpful. Don’t sell yourself short, Alphys. You’ve overcome a lot.” And sometimes making sure your suffering is meaningful – like helping someone else who is going through the same thing – is one of the best things you can do for yourself.

She goes scarlet. After a moment she mumbles, “Thanks.” After another moment she asks, “D-do you really think I c-c-could help?”

“I do. You wouldn’t have to say much. Just enough to let her know she isn’t alone.”

“Yeah.” Alphys nods. “I understand. You’ll let me know when she can talk?”

“Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Chara has been okay since their appointments. They still occasionally have abdominal pain, but a dietary adjustment lessened the frequency of their symptoms. Isla suggests they watch surgery videos, which is something they do enthusiastically. They start off with robotic surgery videos, but decide they want to see more and begin pulling up videos of traditional open surgery. They carry around their tablet to share their excitement over knee replacements and appendectomies. Frisk is the only one who is squeamish. She, Asgore, and Asriel do not have human bodies, so getting glimpses inside them is odd, but not gross.

Toriel is worried about Asriel. He keeps… _hovering_ over Chara so he is ready at a moment’s notice to get whatever they need. She shoos him back to his homework more times than she can count because she can tell it bothers them. Chara and Frisk both have issues accepting the help of others. Sometimes they have trouble believing other people might want to help them at all. It is best not to overwhelm them while they are doing alright on their own.

“Asriel,” she calls. “Will you assist me, my son?”

He reluctantly makes his way over to her, leaving Chara on the sectional. Frisk is at the table, completely absorbed in their laptop. Though it is two months away, they are already working on their speech for Surface Day.

“I already finished my homework,” Asriel says.

“I know,” Toriel replies. “Can you peel the oranges, please?”

He frowns and cuts right to the point. “Why won’t you let me help Chara?”

She pauses and turns to look at him. “It is making them uncomfortable, Asriel.”

“They’re sick. Of course they’re uncomfortable.” He flexes his fingers repetitively. Reminding himself, she thinks, that he has hands instead of petals. “Why should they have to do something that hurts them or uses up their energy when I’m there to do it for them?”

“Because they do not wish for everything to be done for them. They will accept your help if it is occasional and necessary. If you insist on waiting on them hand and foot, they may become fed up. If Chara were well, would you expect them to tolerate your hovering?”

“No, but they’re _sick_.”

“Healthy or not, Chara is still themself.” As she looks at him, the guilt crops up: how could she not have noticed Chara’s plans for suicide? Chara and Asriel have been forever impacted by that, and she, their mother, had to be told about it decades after it happened. “I understand why this is difficult for you, my child. Chara _is_ sick, but they are going to get better.”

Asriel’s eyes fill with tears. “I know, I just… I keep remembering how I didn’t do anything, and they… a-and I’m not doing anything _now_ , so…”

Oh, her precious boy. He will doubtlessly be prone to tears throughout adulthood, like his father. Toriel turns away from her pie crust and takes a step towards him. She raises her hands just a little, palms-up. An invitation, but not insistent. He is an adolescent, so she should expect him to occasionally reject offers of parental comfort.

This time he takes it, walking into her embrace and resting his cheek against her shoulder. He is getting so tall, but he is not as broad as she is, let alone Asgore. She wonders if he will fill out in the future.

She strokes the fur on the back of his head. “You are doing something when you choose to step back and allow them time alone. Although it may not feel like you are doing anything helpful, it is the best way you can participate indirectly in their healing. And they will heal. We know what is wrong, we have a plan, and they _want_ to get better. They want to be well.” She kisses him between his horns. “That is the most important thing.”

 

* * *

 

“Wa ha ha! If it isn’t our ambassador!”

Frisk grins. “Hi, Mr. Gerson.”

The old tortoise grins back. “I thought I told you to drop the mister.”

Gerson took a little longer than most to make his move to the surface after the fall of the barrier. By the time he surfaced, the university was up and running and he immediately set up shop on a nearby side street. Business has been booming for him ever since. Students from the college make up the bulk of his customers.

“I thought I’d drop by,” Frisk replies. “It’s been a while since I’ve been out this way.”

“Well, you’ve been awfully busy, kid. No doubt about that.” Gerson leans onto the counter. “Next year’s your last in school, isn’t it?”

“My last year in high school.” It still feels weird. Aging feels weird. Frisk wonders if it will ever not feel weird. “I should be at the college next year.”

“Maybe then you can come visit more often, eh?”

“Absolutely.” The thing Frisk dislikes most about their job is the sheer amount of _time_ it takes. Time they could be spending with their family and friends. They have not seen much of many of the friends they made while Underground. “It will be nice to have more control over my schedule.”

“You’re gonna take over more of ol’ Fluffybuns’s responsibilities?”

“Gradually. Not all at once.” Right now, the idea of handling everything alone terrifies them. The idea of looking over their shoulder and not seeing their parents ready to back them up…

This scares them for more than one reason. But they know they won’t ever be truly alone. Their mother and father will be there when Frisk calls, and in all likelihood, Asriel will be right there beside them.

Of course, Chara will be ready to kill anyone who upsets them, not that Frisk will allow that. It is still nice to know their best friends have their back.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Gerson says casually. “Fluffybuns isn’t the best at handling conflict. The queen isn’t, either, unless the conflict is between a couple of kiddos.”

This simple, accurate comment starts up a storm of emotions in Frisk’s head. The most prominent is an anxious urge to defend their family. It is not necessary. A lot of people who know nothing about them say terrible things about their family all the time, but this is nothing like that. Gerson knows their parents, he knows their virtues and faults and nobody is perfect, so it is silly to be bothered by something with which Toriel and Asgore would readily agree.

As usual, they keep everything neat and tidy behind their poker face. They learnt a long time ago that expressionlessness was the least provoking.

“Besides, you’re human,” Gerson continues. “The human adopted by monsters. If anyone’s gonna get this done, it’s gonna be you.”

This is not pressure, this is encouragement. This is someone else expressing their confidence in Frisk’s abilities, even though it took them years to believe they could genuinely be _good_ at anything. They always did their best, and now their best is usually enough, as long as they have help, and there are many, many people who are willing and able to help them.

They manage to crush the squirming feeling in their gut much faster this time. They’re getting better at this, too.

“I’ll do my best,” Frisk promises. Right now, it is the most they can do. “Do you… have any tips? You watched human-monster relations deteriorate once.”

“Tips?” Gerson repeats. “Ha ha, kiddo. I’d be a much worse politician than you or Fluffybuns. But it seems to me that we’ve sorta stalled out, is that right?”

Frisk nods. At first, there was a lot of confusion and disorganized activity – but they got _so much_ done. Those first few years were so productive, and then… it just kind of stopped. The cities grew together, but no real political progress has been made in years. Things are okay, and for the most part monsters don’t notice which rights they are lacking in day-to-day life, but just because it’s okay doesn’t mean it can’t and shouldn’t be better.

The most frustrating part is that Frisk can’t identify a reason for it. There’s no interaction between their community and the people who… don’t hold monsters in the highest regard. Nobody seems to be able to figure out _why_ they feel that way. Most of them try to stay away from the monsters, and those who don’t cannot seem to go a few years without mounting an assassination attempt. The majority of them are so poorly planned that they are stopped before anyone can be injured, but the intent is still there, and it makes Frisk sad.

“There was a lot of initial progress,” Gerson continues, “but the situation has changed drastically since then. Now, keep in mind I’m just an ol’ coot selling his trinkets, so maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about, but it seems to me that our approach hasn’t changed along with the situation. If you’re gonna stay on top of it, kiddo, you’re gonna have to adapt, and be the example for everyone else.”


	7. Doubt: indecision between belief and disbelief of a claim, action, motive, or decision.

Asriel’s rebirth was simultaneously one of the best and worst experiences of Toriel’s life.

Her son was back. He was alive. He was _alive_. He was here, she could hold him, read him stories, cook for him, let him know just how much she loved him. She could nurture him and watch him grow and be proud of who he became.

He was here and alive and _suffering_.

For all of Isla’s public abrasiveness, here she was invaluable. She was with Asriel all the time, day and night. Frisk frequently was, too, with Sans hovering on the edge, unsure of where he belonged.

At first… it was bad. Toriel could not even see her son for fear it would be too much for him, too soon. Frisk was with him quite a bit. Alphys, Undyne, and Papyrus were always in her house when they could be. Toriel kept herself busy directing Papyrus and Undyne in the kitchen and discussing public opinion as determined by casual internet users with Alphys. Asgore came over and he and Undyne taught Alphys how to spar while Papyrus cheered her on and Toriel stood by in case somebody needed healing.

All the while, Toriel texted Sans, though he did not always reply immediately. She did not want to put too much pressure on her friend. He was already putting pressure on himself to be there for Isla and Frisk. Part of her wondered whether this would push him to tell Isla of his feelings for her, but that was unimportant compared to what Asriel’s memories were doing to him.

Sans would tell her what was going on if he had that information. Sometimes he’d send her things like _i dont know what im doing_ and _im just in the way here_ and she would respond that Isla had told her he was the only reason she could care for Asriel his every waking hour.

She had known for a long time Sans had trouble believing good things about himself. Whenever he came over, he would let her mother him to her heart’s content, which she decided was good for both of them at the moment. Papyrus, Alphys, and Undyne allowed her to mother them, too. To an extent.

Toriel briefly saw Isla perhaps every other day. Asgore was always there. Isla would show them what she had sketched and would go over her notes with them. At first, things like, “he only had two panic attacks today,” and, “he woke me up four times,” passed as good news. Weeks later, Isla, dark circles under her eyes prominent in a pallor borne of sleep deprivation and stress, smiled at them and said, “He told me he loves me. He seemed so happy when I said it back.”

 _That_ sounded like Asriel. He had been such a sweet, timid boy. Toriel could hardly believe Flowey had been her son. She could hardly believe Asriel, always so full of love, had lived without it for so long. It was really no wonder he was having such a terrible time now, but she could barely fathom it most days.

Asgore had not been a fixture in her home before this. Frisk had called him Dad. It was their right to decide that, just as it was their right to call her Mom. She had decided early on that she was not going to fight them on that, especially since Asgore had actually seemed to care for them. She could tolerate him for Frisk’s sake.

He needed to be here when Asriel was ready to see them. About that, Toriel had no doubts. Asgore must have been tired of going back and forth between here and the Embassy, so one night she told him he could stay in her guest bedroom. Of course, he proceeded to annoy her by thanking her profusely and promising he would not be a bother. Strangely, she came away from that conversation trying not to smile.

They had avoided discussion of the past as much as possible, but with this they began throwing tidbits back and forth, “Remember when Asriel did this,” or “Remember when Chara did that,” and there was nostalgia and occasionally tears but Toriel learnt that in this, Asgore was the only other person who could understand. The moment she had dared believe her son was alive was still fresh in her mind; how Isla had cried before Sans could even open his mouth, how sincere Sans had been when he usually did his best to make everything he said sound like a joke, how she had taken Asgore’s hand and leaned onto him and he onto her.

And, months later, when they finally got to see Asriel – when she finally got to hold her son. He and Asgore burst into tears immediately. Toriel managed to hold out until she scooped Asriel into her arms and then she buried her snout into the fur on her son’s head and sobbed. Asgore sandwiched Asriel between them, arms wrapping around them both, and she didn’t even mind. Asriel was saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again but he could say whatever he wanted and cry as long as he needed if it meant she could keep holding him.

Her friends were there and so was Frisk, and while she had become accustomed to being the ‘group mom,’ she had never before felt that sense of family so deeply as she did with their support. Maybe that was okay. Perhaps requiring support did not mean she was not doing a good enough job.

Once, after they put Frisk and Asriel to bed, Asgore said, “I keep thinking about it. That day he… every time I touch him, I half-expect him to fall apart into dust. Do you—?”

He cut himself off and turned his face away from her. She did not need to see his eyes to know he was holding back tears. “I think about it too,” she said. “He is here now, but… he still died. He…”

She trailed off. They stood there in silence. Asgore didn’t seem inclined to break it, so Toriel did. “Why don’t we make some tea,” she suggested gently. He nodded and followed her down the stairs, and for once she did not feel the need to preoccupy herself with something that was not him.

 

* * *

 

Once his secretary figures out it’s Frisk on the phone, she transfers them directly to Calder, who rearranges a few things and then the next day they are sitting in a slightly shady restaurant within the vaguely defined ‘neutral zone’ between the monster-friendly part of the city and the monster-unfriendly part.

It’s not quite ten, but it’s supposed to be brunch. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” Frisk says. “I appreciate your time.”

“Of course, Ambassador,” Calder replies. “Forgive me for rushing you, but I am in a hurry. Let’s cut the pretense of small talk. How can I help you?”

For a human in a hurry, Calder sure doesn’t sound or act like he’s in a hurry. “I was hoping to open a dialogue,” Frisk says. “I want to talk to people who aren’t happy about the Monster Movement. I want to do it in a private setting, so their identities can be protected. I don’t want to lecture them or talk at them. I want them to talk to me. I just… want to figure out why.”

Calder regards them quietly for a moment. His eyes, Frisk notices, are the same color as Isla’s: green with a brownish ring around the pupil. Gavin’s, they remember unpleasantly, are bright green. Gavin might look like his father, but he didn’t inherit his father’s patience or kindness.

“That would be worth the time it takes,” he finally says. “You are assuming that I can put you in touch with these people.”

“I was hoping you could. You were the most accessible person on the council, and… I figured you would be the most receptive to meeting with me. Most of your colleagues scoff at my age.”

“They should not. A few more years will make you better at this than your parents, who are centuries old. Am I correct to presume you haven’t told them about this idea of yours yet?”

Frisk grimaces inwardly. “I was planning on telling them after I meet with our disgruntled neighbors. There’s a chance they would stop me from coming and try to step in instead.” And Frisk knows they will get more honesty in a human-to-human conversation than they would if any monsters were present.

“Were you planning on telling anyone?”

“Yes, I was. I’m aware that I could be putting myself at risk doing this.”

“I can attempt to filter out any who would be violent towards you, but I cannot guarantee your safety. I have a few stipulations if I am to assist you with this.”

Frisk nods. “What are they?”

“I will be there with you. Anyone who may react violently will be less likely to do so in my presence. But I expect you to direct the conversation. I will intervene if necessary, but if I am running the show nobody will respect you.”

This human is better at public presentation than anyone Frisk knows, except perhaps Mettaton. They are both excellent at using every gesture, every word, every action to portray themselves just the way they want everyone else to think of them. Frisk can learn something here, something their parents cannot teach them because, despite their status as royalty and Boss Monsters, their parents were always meant to do something different. They nod again.

“You should bring the teleporting skeleton with you. If things go sideways, he can get you out. But unless he is needed, he must remain out of sight. Any monster presence at all may silence people who would otherwise speak. On the same page, you cannot bring Doctor Reilly. I agree that there is a barrier in communication. The responsibility for that barrier primarily rests on the anti-monster violence, but she is part of that problem. Tell her when you tell your parents.”

That is _exactly_ what Frisk was planning on doing. They were going to bring Sans, and they were also going to tell Chara and Asriel so they could cover for Frisk in case someone asks about their absence. That it is the first thing Calder thought of convinces them that they planned correctly.

“That sounds good to me.” They feel validated. This is good. The most difficult part will be convincing Asriel and Chara that they need to do this. “I know this could take some time to set up…”

Calder scribbles something on a napkin with a pen. “Call me in a week. That’s my extension; it will allow you to get around the appointment desk. I try to keep my lunch hour free.”

Frisk takes the napkin. They see the numbers, but their brain focuses on the words beneath them: _My office is bugged._

They freeze. What does this mean? Is it a warning? Did their _parents_ have the councilors’ place of work _bugged_? Is that…?

That is not likely. What is more likely is that someone – or some _group_ – wants to make sure Calder and the other councilors are doing what they want. With a chill, Frisk abruptly realizes that every phone call Calder takes is probably monitored, including the one they made yesterday. Someone could have heard them schedule this meeting.

They are probably being watched. Right now. Maybe the reason Calder suggested a restaurant in the neutral zone was to protect Frisk. Maybe he knows anyone who wants to kill them will be far less likely to do it here.

They have so many questions. And they cannot ask.

With their poker face in place, they fold up the napkin and shove it into their pocket. “Thank you,” they say. “I appreciate the help.”

Calder nods and takes a drink of his coffee. He’s calm. He just trusted Frisk with a huge piece of information and he is this calm.

Honestly, he can’t know what Frisk is going to do with it. They don’t even know what they’re going to do with it. Not yet.

 

* * *

 

Undyne tosses her lunch on the table and sits down hard enough to break the chair, as usual. “How was this morning?” Toriel asks without looking up. She has a sandwich in her left hand and a pencil in her right. She usually works on Chara’s lesson plans during lunch.

“Good!” Undyne replies. “It’s sunny, so I was able to take the kids outside and let ‘em play kickball.”

Undyne enjoys rain very, very much. It took a couple of conversations for Toriel to convince her that no, most students did not want to play outside during the rain, and it would even be uncomfortable for some of them to sit through the remainder of their classes in wet clothes.

“That is good,” Toriel says. “It is not often sunny during the schoolyear.”

“Yeah. This weather stuff is still weird to me sometimes. Especially when it changes really fast or gets super windy. Wind is weird!”

Toriel would probably find wind strange, too, if she did not remember the feel of it through her fur. A breeze carried scents: other monsters, humans, flowers, a stream, a lake, a forest. And, during the war, the scent of dust and blood and desperation.

Undyne watches her scribble for a moment. “Chara set a date yet?” she asks.

Toriel sighs and puts the pencil down. “No, they have not. I hope they can do it this summer, while Frisk, Asriel, and I do not have to come to school and will have more time to provide postoperative care. But I will not push them. This is a very hard thing for them to overcome.”

“I know. But they’re doing it! They’re too determined not to, so they’ll kick this surgery’s ass!”

Toriel chuckles. “I’m sure they will.”

Undyne digs into her fruit salad. “Frisk and Asriel are gonna be seniors next year,” she says. “They’re going to the college here, right?”

“Absolutely.” As of now, Ebott University is the only post-secondary institution that can count monsters amongst its students. Monsters have had their degrees accredited at other institutions, but as far as Toriel knows, nobody has left Newer Home to attend college. “They both said they do not intend to apply anywhere else. Leaving the monster community would be contradictory to Frisk’s career. I doubt Asriel would fare very well entirely on his own. He will stay with Frisk, and neither of them wants to leave Chara.”

“They gonna room together in the dorms?”

“That is one option. They could also get an apartment together. My hope is that they live at home for a year or two. Frisk will be eighteen going into their freshman year, but Asriel will only be sixteen. I am unsure Chara would do well with them moving out.”

“They grew up so damn fast. And if I’m saying that, I can’t imagine how you must feel.”

Yes, they did. Toriel finds she is more frequently happy than sad about this. All of them suffered so terribly when they were younger. They older they get, the more their symptoms improve, the happier they are, and the happier Toriel feels.

“They will always be my children,” she says, because they will, and if she sometimes wishes to baby them as adults then damnit they are going to let her. She picks her pencil back up.

Undyne viciously stabs a piece of melon and chomps on it. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“You may ask. I would like to hear the question before deciding whether to answer or not.”

“You’ve been living with Asgore for a year. Are you ever gonna… you know.”

She makes a very inappropriate gesture with her hands. Toriel glances around to make sure nobody else saw that – fortunately, the occupants of the other tables seem to be engrossed in their own conversations. “That is unlikely,” she replies. Keep it short. Keep it simple.

“But not impossible.”

Toriel studies her grinning face for a moment. “Did he put you up to this?”

“What? No,” Undyne snorts. “He’d be mortified if he knew I was asking.”

Yes, he would. This is not a topic Toriel is keen on thinking about, either. Living with Asgore has been easy; they have both slipped back into routines they developed during the centuries they were together. Because those routines work, not because their relationship is the same as it used to be.

“We are friends,” Toriel says at last. “I believe we are both satisfied with that. There is no need to invite complications by attempting to change things.”

“‘Cause of your kids?”

“They are certainly part of it.”

“Have you asked them what they think about the prospect of you two getting back together?”

This gives her pause. “Well… no.”

Undyne runs her fingers along the band of her eyepatch. “I know you’ve got other reasons for not wanting to entertain the possibility. I’m not saying we compare misdeeds here, but Alphys did a lot of stuff she’s not proud of. Was I happy to find out how much she lied to me? Hell no. But she already put herself down enough over that. I was disappointed and kinda pissed, yeah, but being disappointed and pissed wasn’t gonna do anything. Helping her feel better, make better choices – that helped. And, uh, she helped me too, you know?”

It occurs to Toriel that this conversation has not devolved into Undyne climbing on the table and trying to get Toriel to shout a confession to a love that no longer exists. Clearly there was some outside influence.

This is difficult to articulate. “What we had is gone. That is not up for debate.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can’t have something new. Your friendship is new.”

“I know. But… new does not make everything we went through go away. New does not bring those children back from the dead. There is so much negativity and we have finally found a way to integrate it. It seems too risky to disrupt.”

“Toriel,” Undyne says, “I heard about it when you sat down and started talking about your kids. I know you never sat down and talked about the kids who are still dead, because Asgore would’ve mentioned that, too. You’re doing a whole lot more ignoring than integrating.”

She feels something rear its ugly head within her – it is not anger, exactly, but it is fierce and calls for destruction, even if all she does is shout and destroy the peaceful atmosphere of the room. She wants to vent, which makes her want Sans’s company.

Centuries of discipline allow her to toss this urge aside. She has a temper, but it does not control her. She chooses when and where to let it reign. She is not irritated with Undyne, she is frustrated with… everything about this, really.

Undyne sees the look on Toriel’s face and, in an atypical display of tact, says, “Just something to think about. We can talk about something else.”

Toriel sighs. For Undyne, that was awfully… coherent. “You rehearsed this with Alphys, did you not?”

Undyne grins. “Caught me.”

 

* * *

 

Asgore is looking forward to the last day of school. He always sees more of his children during the summer. Chara often opts to continue their schooling through the summer, since Toriel has more time. Frisk and Asriel rarely bring home friends from school. It seems the only friend his children need aside from each other is Kalene Dyre, to whom they were initially exposed out of necessity.

At the end of the day, he gets a call from one of the receptionists, who tells him he has a guest without an appointment. Curious, he heads out into the lobby to see who it is.

He finds Riley Sanders waiting for him. “Howdy,” he greets. “How can I help you?”

“Hi, King Asgore.” Asgore often finds that humans become uncomfortable if he insists they leave off the title. He has stopped insisting. Instead, if he has spoken with a human a few times on casual terms, he invites them to drop the title. He makes it an offer, not a demand, so they do not feel compelled to obey. “I’m sorry for barging in, but I have a… a request, I suppose. May I have a moment of your time?”

“Certainly. Would you like to take a walk around the gardens, or is this more of an office visit?”

Riley chews on his lip. He seems nervous. “Um, either way. I just wanted to bring something up – it’s not secret, or formal at all, really, so I suppose we could walk.”

Excellent. Asgore wishes he could hold meetings in the gardens. It would likely calm the participants down. As it is, the Monster Movement has become a hot-button topic and his mere presence is all it takes to cause tension when he meets with humans, even if the topic of discussion is unrelated to the Monster Movement. It can be frustrating and tiring.

He finds it hard to remain tense while surrounded by so much beauty and life. He wishes he had more time to spend out here. In the park, too. Perhaps, after Asriel and Frisk graduate college, he can hand some of his responsibilities to them and fill his hours with sun and soil and plants.

“I, um called Isla about this,” Riley says. “She told me to come directly to you. I – probably wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t told me to. It sorta seems like it should be beneath your notice, but – here I am. I’m sorry if this is presumptuous.”

He seems to need prompting. “Not at all. I am sure that, whatever it is, I can assist you.” Isla would not have referred him if that were untrue.

“W-well, I just got my Master’s degree. I’d always hoped to run for some kind of public office, ever since I saw how the Camp Wendell shooting worked into my father’s career. When you came out of the mountain, I was only really interested because Isla’s name was attached to you. I came to see her, but every time I’m here I’m blown away by what you guys have done for yourselves. I’m with Isla on this – the fact that you have practically no violent crime means something wonderful. I want to help, if you’ll let me. I was thinking about running for the State Senate or Assembly and trying to make this a state issue instead of a local one, since the local politicians have been voting against you. To that end, I was wondering if I could do an – an internship, or something of the sort. Something that gets me experience in your community so I can live the situation before I tell other people they should care about it.”

Before Asgore can reply, Riley continues with, “And it’s totally fine if you can’t, or if you say no, or if you advertise an internship and want me to apply for it like everyone else. I understand. I—”

Asgore holds up a hand and the human’s mouth closes. “On a practical note, it would benefit us to have more political allies, especially at the state level, so of course you may do an internship.”

“Thank you, sir. I was – hesitant about asking. I want you to know I’m not just looking for a convenient entrance into my career, I want something to be passionate about. Given what I lived through, this seems like a perfect fit for me. We need to be _better_ , and this is definitely one area in which we should learn from your expertise.”

He smiles and sets a hand on Riley’s shoulder. “I am honored you would see fit to come here and offer to help. We would be grateful to have you on board. Allow me to be the first to welcome you to the community.”

 

* * *

 

When he returns home, it is to find everyone in the house surrounding the table. Isla is sitting on one of the chairs, in a sports bra, right wrist resting casually on her head. Chara is standing next to her, and for a second his soul nearly jumps out of his body when he sees the scalpel in their hand.

They make a jabbing motion, then saw up and down once quickly. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that,” Isla says. “I won’t move, I’ve done this to myself before.”

When he gets closer, he notices that at least a third of Isla’s armpit is red. It is the same color she gets when she spends too much time under the sun. In the middle of the red spot is a raised white lump.

Toriel is moving about in the kitchen. When he sees how calm she is, he relaxes a little. “Howdy,” he says. “What is going on here?”

“Greetings, Asgore,” Toriel calls, and goes right back to baking something that smells delicious.

“Howdy, Dad,” Asriel replies. He is sitting next to Isla. “Isla has an abscess. Chara’s going to lance it.”

“A what?”

“It’s basically a pocket of infection,” Isla explains. “My garbage immune system does this to me sometimes. It freaks out about a little pathogen or mistakes my own cells as foreign material and walls it off. Treatment is to cut it open, squeeze all the crap out, and keep it clean and open so it can heal from the bottom up. I would do it myself, but I don’t trust my left hand with the fine motor skills a scalpel requires.”

Chara opens an alcohol swab and rubs it on Isla’s armpit. “Ready?” they ask.

Asriel offers a hand, palm-up. “Wanna hold? You can squeeze when it hurts.”

“This isn’t the worst part. The worst part is squeezing the hell out of all that inflamed flesh to get the pus out,” Isla says, but she takes his hand anyway. Asgore catches Toriel’s eye, but she only shrugs. Any explanation sufficient enough to move Toriel to calmly allow this is enough for him.

Frisk is behind Chara. They squeal and put their hands over their eyes when Chara cuts into Isla. Chara makes the motion they made earlier and the blade is in Isla for barely two seconds.

Blood and a thick white fluid ooze down her skin. Chara grabs some of the gauze scattered on the table and mops it up. “Ready?” they ask again.

They position their fingers perhaps half an inch on either side of the incision and squeeze. Isla didn’t even blink when they cut her, but she grimaces at this. More of that white fluid leaks out. Frisk squirms in place but does not look away, eyes wide. Asriel leans over so he can see. “Frisk, what’s wrong?” he asks.

Frisk hops from one foot to the other. “That’s so nasty, _ew_.”

Chara grins. “It’s not nasty, it’s cool. I can feel how it’s hard around the outside and hollow on the inside.” They squeeze again, at a different angle. “For how long do I do this?”

“Until you’re seeing no pus and a lot of blood,” Isla replies. “Try to break up the casing, too.”

Frisk shudders, but cannot seem to look away. Asgore does not feel the need to watch. Things that gross humans out often do not disgust monsters, so he cannot exactly understand Frisk’s reaction. Now that he thinks about it, humans are often squeamish about things their bodies do. It is odd.

He goes upstairs to change into casual clothes and by the time he comes back downstairs Chara is securing a square of gauze over Isla’s incision with tape. When they are finished, they wash their hands. Isla throws away all the dirty gauze on the table and begins to sterilize the scalpel and table with alcohol wipes. All this before putting her shirt back on, which is thrown over the back of Asriel’s chair. Compared to other humans, Isla tends to be unconcerned with partial or complete nudity.

Chara looks over their shoulder at him as they dry their hands. “Mom, Dad,” they say. They shoot a quick look at Frisk, who gives them an encouraging smile. “I – think I want to set a date for my surgery,” Chara continues. “Early September. I feel, and Isla agrees, that will give me enough time to get to a point at which I can… tolerate it. I do not believe I will ever feel comfortable with the prospect of surgery, but I can try to tolerate it.”

“Are you certain?” Toriel asks seriously. “I would not want to schedule an appointment if doing so would cause you to feel pressured to be ready by that date.”

“September actually gives us more time than I believe we will need,” Isla replies. “We decided it would be best to allot extra time.”

“I want to be strong enough to do this,” Chara says. “I apologize for delaying until after school starts next year, but—”

“Oh, no, dear.” Toriel approaches them, crouching in front of them. She offers them her hands and they do not hesitate before taking them. Their fingertips barely span the pads on Toriel’s palms. “You never need to apologize for taking your time, my child. We are so proud of you for being so patient with yourself, and being brave enough to face this obstacle.”

“Say, Chara,” Asgore says. It comes to him suddenly. “You have been watching videos of human surgery, correct?”

Chara cocks their head to one side. “I have.”

“Well, why not ask if they can record your surgery? You can watch it afterward. That way you can know for certain what happened while you were asleep.”

Chara stares at him for a moment, then whips around to look at Isla. “Do they do that?” they demand. “Is that something I can request?”

She shrugs. “We can ask. Those videos you’ve been watching came from somewhere. They may want you to sign a release form so the video can be used for educational or research purposes, but there is no reason not to ask.”

“Then I want to do that,” Chara says. “If they will allow it.”

Toriel beams at him. “What a great idea, Gorey. Of course we can ask. I will call Dr. Khan’s office tomorrow.”

Asgore feels himself melt a little, but he tries to maintain a neutral expression because Frisk hides a snicker behind their hand and Asriel, smirking widely, mutters, “Yeah, great idea, _Gorey_.”

Isla high-fives him under the table. Fortunately, Toriel and Chara either do not hear, or they pretend not to hear, because neither of them reacts.


	8. Ethics: a branch of philosophy that involves systematizing, defending, and recommending concepts of right and wrong conduct.

It was difficult to walk away, but they did. Asgore knew it would take seconds to reach his son on the stage if he needed to get to him, but it still felt as though he was leaving Asriel to face this on his own.

He could tell Toriel was feeling the same way, even though Frisk would be with him and Isla was backstage, ready to intervene if necessary. “He’s going to be okay,” he offered half-heartedly. He wanted to believe it, but… Asriel was still very fragile.

“I only hope this doesn’t make things worse for him,” Toriel replied. “I worry.”

“Frisk will keep him calm,” Asgore said. “And Isla will make sure he is okay.”

Toriel nodded automatically, gaze fixed on Mettaton, who was in the process of introducing himself and his show. “I know. I still worry, but I am proud of him for wanting to do this. He knows this is important.”

Asgore felt something raw and fierce rise within him and promptly build up behind his eyes. Oh, no. He was not allowed to cry here. If Asriel were to see him crying, it would upset him, and he refused to hinder his son in this.

When Mettaton introduced Asriel, everyone was quiet – for a moment. Then the chattering began. In his peripheral vision, Asgore noticed people looking at Toriel and him. They would probably have to field questions from their people later. Check that, they would probably have even more questions from the humans.

After the talking died down, Mettaton said, “Now, I must ask, darling, the question everyone has been asking: how are you here right now? Everyone wants to hear the answer from you.”

This had occupied a lot of time when they had begun discussing the interview. Mettaton had pointed out it would appear very strange to many humans if he did not ask that question. Asriel had had to rehearse his answer many times, since the topic still upset him.

“After I, um, absorbed Chara’s soul,” Asriel began, voice a little wobbly, “we – died. When I woke up, I was soulless. I was unrecognizable. It… was awful. That’s why no monster should ever absorb a human’s soul again. I didn’t get my own soul back until, um, until I could feel love, hope, and compassion again. And – it took a long time and it was really hard. I don’t… it’s still really hard for me to talk about it, but I don’t want anyone else to be killed, and I don’t want anyone else to be soulless. That’s why I’m so glad we’re working on getting things peaceful now.”

Asriel looked up, and Asgore made himself nod and smile. Next to him, Toriel was doing the same thing. Asriel blinked and looked back to Mettaton. He was still very tense, but he seemed just a little bit better now.

“Thank you, Prince,” Mettaton said. That was not his showbiz tone, his voice was soft. “You’re very brave for coming forward with this. Now, if I can ask you something a little happier: what has been your favorite part of living on the surface?”

Asriel thought for a moment. “Probably living with my family and friends. We can just… have a good life here, and that’s important. It’s what we always wanted when we were stuck Underground.”

A large portion of the crowd melted into a collective _awwwww_. Asgore reminded himself again that he was not allowed to tear up. His son had always been gentle and loving and expressive. It was good to see that, despite how his experiences had changed him, at his core, he was still himself.

 

* * *

 

Asriel and Chara are surprisingly receptive to the idea of Frisk meeting with monster-unfriendly humans. They are less receptive to the single piece of information Calder gave them.

“Damn,” Chara says. “Why would he tell you that?”

“I don’t know,” Frisk admits. “At first I thought he meant he knew Mom and Dad had his office bugged, but it has to be the racist group. Why else would he tell me? He wanted me to know that group knows every word said in his office. I bet they listen in on phone calls. They might even have the entire building bugged.”

“He might have been lying,” Chara points out. “Maybe he’s working with them. Maybe he wants you to cut off all communication with the council so it looks like the monsters are being uncooperative.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Frisk says. Their meeting with Calder’s anti-monster constituents is next week. Chara and Asriel were the first to hear about it. “He’s really… upfront and calm and accessible. I don’t remember him ever lying to us. When we can’t get an answer to something out of the other councilors, he always tells us what’s going on without trying to mislead us or give us unnecessary details. He’s helpful. Almost nice, even.”

“I think so, too,” Asriel says. “And… since he’s usually the most helpful to us and he has the most individual power on the council, it would make sense for the racists to watch him closely. Why tell him about it, though?”

“So they can make him vote the way they want,” Chara answers. “That’s probably why anyone on the council for longer than six months votes against us. It takes them a little bit of time to sink their claws into the newly elected ones.”

“You think they’re being blackmailed?” Frisk asks.

Asriel exchanges a look with Chara. He is beginning to look worried. “If we’re right about this, it’s really bad,” he says. “Frisk, I… I think we should tell Mom and Dad.”

They shake their head. “I’d have to tell them how I found out. I’d have to tell them I’m going to go talk to people with anti-monster sentiments with only Sans as backup, and then they won’t let me go.”

“We should tell Sans,” Chara says. “Get his take on it.”

“Can we dump that on him?” Asriel asks. “He doesn’t know much about politics. Frisk, you know more than he does. What if he tells Mom or Isla?”

“He won’t if I tell him not to,” Frisk says. They are reasonably sure of this. Asking Sans not to do something should result in success, since inaction generally takes less effort than action. “I… don’t know what he’ll say.”

“He should go along with it if we promise to tell the parents right after Frisk has their meeting,” Chara says. “I’m still not convinced Calder wasn’t playing you, Frisk, but even if he wasn’t… wouldn’t he have indicated on the note that he needed help, if it were urgent? He gave you information and didn’t ask you to do anything with it. Maybe he just wanted us to know so we don’t compromise ourselves.”

Frisk drags their fingers through their hair. They feel like punching a pillow. “I don’t know. There are too many _possibilities_.”

“Well, you know for sure you’re going to see him when you meet with those humans, right?” Asriel points out. “Why not see if you can get more information out of him then?”

 

* * *

 

Toriel waits until she and the kids are out of school. And then waits some more.

Because she is so hesitant, she decides to talk to Sans about it. She almost never goes to him for advice. This is not because he gives bad advice, it is simply because she is not indecisive and is not likely to seek out advice at all.

She walks next door for lunch. Sans makes fake hot dogs and the cats wind around the legs of the table and chairs, staring expectantly up at them. Sans feeds them little bits of hot dog even though Isla probably told him not to do that.

“What’s on your mind, Tori?” Sans asks. “You haven’t been punnin’ very much through text lately, so I know it’s something.”

Her joke rate always gives her away. “If you are up for it, I wanted to talk about Asgore. Though I completely understand if you would rather I not.”

“Nah, you go right ahead.” He taps a finger on the table. “Everyone needs someone they can talk to ‘bout hard stuff. If I’m that person for you, then I’m glad.”

He has been just the slightest bit more energetic since he told her about his father and since he decided to go back to school. She smiles at him. “You are a good friend, Sans. Thank you.”

He makes a _go ahead_ gesture. Jennifur jumps up on his lap and he takes a moment to deposit her on the floor.

“I am…” she pauses. Tries again. “Had Asgore not declared war following Chara and Asriel’s deaths, I would have stayed. I could not tolerate what he planned to do. And yet… I was the only one who refused to consider us at war. Everyone else accepted it. Encouraged it, even. And…” She has hesitated to allow herself to acknowledge this, but now she says it. “In all honesty, I believe his murder of those children is the only thing keeping us apart now. After all this time, I have to wonder… was I wrong? Was war the right decision?”

The grin has dropped off Sans’s face. Now he looks thoughtful. “Tori… I can’t imagine what that was like, losing both your kiddos. You and Asgore didn’t have any good choices after that. Everything must’ve felt awful. It must’ve been awful. You think maybe you both kinda reacted on impulse?”

“Yes, but our choices would not have changed had we waited until we were calmer. Those humans would have fallen down and we would have had to either harvest their souls or protect them. Let them live, and condemn our people to remain Underground.”

“You sure you woulda made the same choice?”

“I believe so. I believe he would have made the same choice as well.” She drops her gaze for a second. “Though I cannot be completely certain. It… happened so fast, and we were both so overwhelmed we lacked the ability to monitor our emotions or reactions.”

“Understandably. You didn’t have a good option, Tori. There’s no point in agonizing over what decision you shoulda made because a good one didn’t exist.”

She nods. She is disappointed. Why is she disappointed?

Sans looks at her for a moment. “Did you want me to tell you Asgore was right? That you shoulda stayed with him and there’s no reason you shouldn’t be together now?”

“Something that clear-cut would be nice,” she admits. “I cannot seem to look past the murder of those children.”

Sans waits a beat. “I don’t know what to tell ya,” he says. “I dunno what I’d do in your position. It’s hard, Tori. Asgore did somethin’ awful, but he feels awful about it and he did it for a good reason. He probably prevented a lot of monster deaths doing it. The kingdom was borderline hopeless before we got out, and the possibility of getting out was the only thing that kept a lot of people goin’. I’m sorry. You deserve an answer that isn’t so damn complicated, but I don’t think there is one.”

“Please do not apologize,” she says. She glances at the table for a moment. “I don’t think there is one, either. I just wish I did not feel so indecisive.”

“Maybe… you could tell him you’re indecisive. Have a conversation about how you’re feeling.”

She frowns. “I would not want to lead him on when I am unsure.”

“I don’t think that’ll happen. Pretty sure he’s convinced himself he has no shot with you ever, so.”

She wants to grimace at that, but does not. “What if it makes things awkward for the children?”

He rests his jaw in a hand. “Seeing you two dance around each other is probably more awkward. Are you gonna keep making excuses?”

“Well… I was, but not now.”

“Tori, remember when you were tryin’ to get me to talk to Isla? And you were real nice about it, never pushing me to say something when I obviously wasn’t ready. You would just sorta nudge me occasionally.”

She nods. Sans wasn’t even the first to say something, Isla was, and it is doubtful either of them would have said anything had they not been prompted by the assassination attempt. Well – had that not happened, Toriel probably would have started nudging a little harder. Their other friends likely would have encouraged them to talk as well.

“Well, I’m gonna skip over that crap,” Sans continues. “You gotta talk to him, Tori. You don’t have to have all your feelings sorted out beforehand. Chances are you won’t be able to sort them out until after you talk to him.”

“I know.” She smooths the short fur on her fingers in the right direction. “I just do not want to do it.”

“I totally get that. Want some hot cocoa?”

This makes her smile. “I would love some.”

 

* * *

 

Riley manages to get all the Camp Wendell survivors together within a few days of starting his internship. I’m never very active at these things. I only talk to people who want to talk to me. Mostly I sit and watch and wonder how many of these people would be dead had I not done what I did. Usually it’s enough to know I did the right thing. I’m only lucky I ended up doing the right thing, because prior to doing it, I didn’t think about it at all.

My head didn’t cooperate then and it doesn’t want to cooperate now. I need to feed my brain distractions so it doesn’t go off the rails.

Afterwards, Riley and I head to Mettaton’s resort for dinner. “How have your first few days been?” I ask. “What’s Asgore got you doing?”

“Right now I’m just learning how everything works,” he replies, poking his fork into his salad. “I’ve been following a lot of different people around.”

“Are you going to be working with Frisk at any point in time?”

“Probably.” He flips half a cherry tomato over. He hasn’t taken a bite since we sat down.

I try again. “You’re going to be there for a year, right?”

“Yeah.” Still picking at his food. He hasn’t looked at me at all.

I wait, counting to ten in my head. “You seem distracted,” I say.

Riley drops his fork and looks up at me. “Do you know of any good physical therapists around here?”

His voice is slightly higher-pitched than usual. There is tension in his forehead. He’s leaning forward, back not touching the back of the chair. I wonder what this is about.

“I don’t, but I know someone who does,” I answer. Spencer will know somebody. “I can ask for a recommendation. What issues are you having?”

He stares at me for a beat too long. “I overstrained my shoulder working out a few weeks ago. The shoulder I had three surgeries on after Camp Wendell.”

This leaves me completely speechless, but it only takes him a few seconds to crack. “What am I saying? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t whine about this to you of all people—”

I shake my head. “On the contrary, I can understand better than anyone else.”

“But your problems are so much worse than mine, you’ve been in an out of hospitals and ORs, you have chronic pain because of it—”

“So the extent of my issues renders the problems of everyone else involved in that shooting meaningless?”

“That’s not what I said—”

“That’s what you just implied.”

“No!” He grabs the edge of the table, white-knuckled for a moment, then lets go and falls back, slumping in his chair. “Not everyone’s. Just… mine. I’d be dead without you.”

We were just around all those people. Our people. It’s going to be good in the long run, but for a while, it always brings things back up to the surface. I thought I brought everything up myself, sifted through it and set it aside, but then I took another bullet for Asriel and I remembered. I remember. And it wasn’t different than what I had been told, but nobody could ever tell me what had been going through my head.

Nothing was going through my head. I’m supposed to consider the pros and cons of everything, to patiently consider my options. I had zero thoughts in my head when I killed another person.

If seeing the other survivors again is bringing up my crap, I should expect that it can do the same to everyone else. My family got out of the state to get me away from the media attention. Riley didn’t have that opportunity. His father was a senator, and as a parent of one of the survivors, he chose to be open about the shooting. I wonder what it was like for Riley to watch his father talk about it on national television. I gained anonymity when I moved, but I bet most of the people Riley met throughout his childhood knew exactly who he was and what happened to him.

“I’m sorry I left,” comes out of my mouth.

Riley blinks. “Left?”

“Left Boston. I got out after it happened. And I never… went to the vigils, or talked to anyone who tried to contact me. I know your dad tried, on your behalf. I never considered that it might be good for you to talk to me. I just left.”

“Don’t apologize for that.” He pauses. “It was pretty bad afterwards, wasn’t it? That was why you got out.”

“Yes, but it didn’t matter. That sort of thing doesn’t go away just because you change environments.” I never really asked him. “Was it bad for you, too?”

“I mean… my parents didn’t give me a choice. They put me in therapy before the sling came off my arm, but I was so young I didn’t fully understand what had happened until years later. I had nightmares sometimes. Figured out I hated sudden loud noises. I’m not sure if it was ever bad enough to be called awful. It just took a long time.”

I let that sit for a moment. “You know, you don’t always have to plan those get-togethers. You could take a break, see if someone else would be willing to put it together next year.”

“Maybe, but it’s important. I want to make sure it gets done.” He stabs the cherry tomato he was poking earlier. “Sorry. I get kind of on-edge when my shoulder bothers me.”

“I get it, trust me,” I say. “I’m sure Asgore told you this already, but we’re all really glad you’re here. It means a lot that you found our community a worthwhile place to gain experience. I know you’re taking a risk with your career, since we’re still fairly new and we have provoked some political controversy.”

“I don’t really have a career at this point, so I don’t see it that way. But I’m glad I’m here too. There’s so much potential here. If every other politician wants to play it safe, that’s their loss.”

The tension is starting to wind down. Good. This is… not something I feel like talking about right now. I need a break. It’s almost always better in the long run to get it out there, confront it, and process it, but that doesn’t mean I can’t have moments or days in which I get to pretend I am healthy, physically and mentally.

“It’s not ever going to go away, is it?” Riley asks suddenly. “Not completely.”

It’s my turn to stare at my food. There is the urge to get up and move, to distract myself. How the hell am I supposed to counsel people when I can barely make the correct decision for myself?

I have to talk. “It’s not going to go away, but that doesn’t mean it can’t become better. Or that you can’t use it to do something good.”

“Is it enough?”

He’s watching me. When it comes to this, he will take whatever I say as law. That means I have to say the right thing.

“It has to be.” What’s coming out of my mouth is right. I’m still a hypocrite for saying it.

 

* * *

 

When he returns home, it is oddly quiet. He wanders to the back of the house. During the school year, the children frequently do homework at the table or on the sectional, but currently the only other person he sees is Toriel.

“Come join me,” she says when she notices him.

Asgore sees no reason why not, so he walks to the table and sits across from her. She pushes a cup of tea towards him. “You are better at making tea than I am, but I remember how you take it.”

“Thank you,” he says. When he sips, it is a smidgen too hot, but a minute or two should fix that.

“There is something I wish to discuss with you, if you have the time,” Toriel says after a moment.

“Of course,” he replies. “Where are the children?”

“Playing games with Papyrus, I imagine. Sans said they could stay at their place for a few hours.”

Wait… did she have the children temporarily relocated just so she could talk to him? Why would she do that? What exactly does she wish to discuss with him?

Suddenly nervous, he nods again. “What’s on your mind, Tori?”

The nickname slips out. He has recently been making that error more and more often.

He expects a disapproving look, if not a short scolding, but Toriel only fiddles with her hands on the table in front of her. “It has been almost a year since you moved in,” she says. “I believe it has benefited the children. It has made everyday life much simpler for us.”

He nods, unsure of where she is going with this. She hesitates and her hesitation only makes him more anxious. Her voice becomes quieter. “I have been thinking of us, lately. Quite frequently. How easy it used to be. How easy it still is for us, sometimes.”

This catches him utterly off guard. He feels far too much at once – there is the anticipation of making the wrong decision, the hesitancy to decide anything at all because he has a history of messing up the most important decisions, and the hope. The hope that she might someday come around, the hope that they can be together again, the hope that he thought was finally gone.

Does he want it back? He felt comfortable with how they were. He stopped expecting anything more, and that was okay. What does he do? What exactly does she want?

“I cannot get past the fallen humans,” she says. Ah. There it is.

She seems like she wants to say more, but he makes himself speak up. “Toriel… we both already know this.”

“I did not know this,” she says. “Not until very recently. I have feelings for you, Asgore. For a long time, I thought I only had negative feelings for you, but I know now that isn’t true. I think… I never stopped loving you. For a time, I just hated you more than I loved you.”

“Tori,” he says, because what else does he say?

“I do not hate you as much anymore.” Her voice is beginning to wobble. “I am not as angry anymore. I still am, sometimes, but – I am afraid of what is under my anger. I am afraid of what could happen between us, even though it could be something wonderful. Actually – I think I fear most what could be wonderful.”

She pauses without looking at him, although she may be looking at him and he cannot see because he is not looking at her. Not for longer than a fraction of a second, anyway. “Tori, what are you trying to say?” he asks. “What do you want?”

After a moment, she says quietly, “The fallen humans wanted us to get out. I have no doubt about that now. Had their anger with you overcome their will for our escape, Asriel would have never been able to break the barrier. But… I worry I am not as good as they were. Not as strong. Not as forgiving. I fear that, should we get back together, I would wake up one day and my anger would be too much for me to overcome. I fear that we would fall apart all over again. And I cannot do it again, Gorey. I cannot let that happen to the children and I cannot let that happen to us.”

“I…” He has to force the words out. “I am scared too, Tori. I still love you. It is different, it has to be different after all that has happened, and it is terrifying, but…”

But what? There is no guarantee that her fears will come true. They have a chance at something magnificent. They just have to let themselves feel everything, everything that happened to them and between them, and maybe she is right and it will blow up in their faces, or maybe they can have something new and even better than before, because…

It’s in his head, ready to come out of his mouth, and instead he asks, “So what do we do?”

Instead he throws the decision back on her. He crumbles under his fear and self-loathing and she was always better at choosing, so once she chooses, he should not go against her. He should be certain he knows what she wants so he can help make it happen. That should be his only goal.

Toriel stares at him for a long, long time. Finally, she says, “If the risks are too great, I suppose we should continue as we are. I simply… wanted you to know where I am and where I can go with all of this.”

He has always been weak. He cannot be what she needs him to be, so this is for the best. “Of course. Our friendship brings me joy, Tori. You should know that.”

There is another long pause. She reaches across the table to rest a hand on his. “It brings me joy as well, Asgore.”

And that is precisely why it is not worth the risk. This is good. That it continues to be good is of more importance than the possibility that it could be better.

 

* * *

 

“I have eight.”

Frisk doesn’t let the disappointment show on their face. “I expected more. Was that unreasonable?”

Calder waits a beat before speaking. “I don’t know. I failed to realize that asking people to meet with you could incite people to turn against me until I began doing it. I had to be very careful with how I made my approach. Many times I could sense the request would be unwelcome, so I backed out.”

Now Frisk feels disappointed in themself. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

“Some people are outright dangerous. But you knew that already. I did my best to filter those people out, but I can make no guarantees.”

“Thank you for what you’ve managed to do. This might be better. I can talk to people individually. They might be more likely to say things in a one-on-one setting than they would in a large group.”

“You brought the skeleton?” Calder asks.

“He’s watching. He’ll bail us out if it goes south.”

Calder nods. “Are you ready?”

No. There aren’t any rules here. Frisk is used to rules. They like rules, as long as they know the rules.

Gerson said they were adaptable. Gerson believes they have the power to begin to change things again. They have to try. “As ready as I’m going to be.”


	9. Loneliness: a feeling of bleakness or anxiety in response to a lack of connection or communication with others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the tags, especially if you have or have had a drug problem.

Toriel spent an inordinate amount of time prior to the wedding saying, “I am certain it will be wonderful,” and “That looks lovely,” and “Let Asgore choose the flowers, dear, he has a better eye for them than you or I.”

It was mildly amusing, at first. Undyne or Alphys would go out of her way to make sure the other was not within earshot, then she would scuttle over to Toriel and disclose anxieties about the upcoming wedding in barely-contained whisper-shouts. Whether it was Alphys nearly hyperventilating about whether the stage would be put together in time or Undyne threatening the weather because it just _couldn’t_ be too hot on their special day, it was Toriel’s job to calm them down and redirect them back towards planning and each other.

Neither was getting cold feet. They both simply wanted the wedding to be perfect. There was quite a bit of pressure on them. They wanted to do an excellent job representing their race, since it had already been widely publicized that theirs would be the first monster wedding since the Surfacing.

Toriel could remember planning her own wedding, so long ago. That had been after they lost the war and were locked in the Underground. There had been quite a bit of pressure on Asgore and her, too, because they were very aware of how badly their people needed the morale boost their marriage would bring.

She didn’t exactly want to think about that, but at least she could use it to help Alphys and Undyne. So she reassured them, even when they asked the same questions over and over again. She was not particularly patient, but she reminded herself frequently it was her job to be there for them. She wanted them to focus on positive feelings as much as possible. This was the best way to help them.

Five days prior to the wedding, Alphys came to Toriel, blushing heavily and eventually managing to admit that she was concerned about having gained stress weight and being unable to fit into the gown she had selected weeks before. “Okay,” Toriel nodded. “Let us try your gown on and see, then. If we find it would be more comfortable for you to have it altered, we have plenty of time to get that done.”

Honestly, Toriel suspected the gown would still fit perfectly, but being dismissive of Alphys’s concerns would do nothing to decrease her anxieties. In fact, it would be patronizing. Besides, each person knew their own body best.

Alphys had selected the gown with input from only Undyne and Mettaton. Mettaton was keeping it in his penthouse. He could not be there to let them in – he was quite busy preparing to go on tour in just a few weeks – but he had made sure Alphys was able to access every residence of his and every building he had put up. She had apparently contributed quite a bit to the design of his security systems, too.

Toriel had seen the dress, but this was her first time seeing Alphys in it. It was short-sleeved and white. The skirts began to flare out just under her bust, flowing to the floor in layers. There was golden glitter heavy at the hem, which slowly thinned out higher up the skirts.

Marrying monsters tended to dress very fancily, but other than that there was no official or social dress code. Commonly, monsters would dress in very bright colors and their decorations would often be the same colors. Humans tended to decorate in white, human women wore white, and human men wore black and white. There was, of course, variation, but from what Toriel had seen that was the most common thing for heterosexual human couples to do.

Interesting how human weddings gravitated towards the color of monster souls. Interesting how monster weddings pulled from the spectrum of colors of human souls.

“That is a very lovely dress,” Toriel told Alphys. She meant it. “And it looks very beautiful on you.”

Alphys, true to form, went scarlet and dropped her gaze. “Th-th-thank y-you,” she stuttered out.

“Does it feel as though it fits? Is it comfortable?”

She shuffled in place. At first, she seemed unable to look at herself in the floor-length mirror for more than half a second, but soon she was turning this way and that and grinning awkwardly. “Y-yeah. It… it actually f-f-feels really comfy.”

“I am glad,” Toriel said. She was standing to Alphys’s left, hands clasped in front of her. She had worn primarily yellow at her wedding. Bright, sunshine yellow. She had made that choice in an attempt to bring joy to the monsters who had so recently lost the sun.

She decided to speak. “Alphys, may I say something completely irrelevant to this?”

Alphys glanced at her. “U-um. Sure?”

Toriel clenched her hands together, briefly, and let the tension go. “I have been… wanting to apologize for firing you. It was a rash decision without much thought behind it and I should have known better than to act on impulse like that. My timing was bad then and it is bad now. It has been years and I know I am very late in this, but I felt it was better to do it late than not at all. Know that I am sorry, and I regret handling the situation so abruptly.”

“O-oh.” Alphys seemed startled, but only for a moment. “But… y-y-you were right to fire me. I-I really m-m-messed up.”

“Perhaps, but doing so without reflecting on it and in front of everyone else was inappropriate. I wish I had taken a little more time. You made an honest mistake and dealt with the consequences by yourself. I know that was difficult for you. It would have been difficult for anyone.”

It was… strange, saying those words. She brushed the oddness off, not wanting to think more deeply about them.

What she did not say was that it was also inappropriate for her to go over Asgore’s head and fire his Royal Scientist. When she left him, she renounced her queenship. He had very quickly made it clear he would welcome her help as queen again, and had later accepted her offer when she suggested they co-rule once more. But, in the time they waited for Frisk near the exit of the Underground, she had not been queen and technically had had no right to overrule any of Asgore’s decisions.

Alphys looked at her for a moment, then nodded. “Thank you, Toriel. A-apology accepted. And… um, I have something to t-tell you about the amalgamates, but, um, try not to g-g-get mad until I’m done talking, okay?”

Toriel felt her brow furrow, but she nodded. She supposed she could do a better job hiding her temper. The vast majority of the monster community had only really known her for three years and it was already becoming infamous among those with whom she spoke frequently.

“Asgore, um, asked if I c-could begin research into what the future could hold for the amalgamates,” Alphys said. “With special regards to… lifespan. He was c-c-concerned that, since they’d already bypassed their natural d-deaths, they wouldn’t have a natural death. That they m-might be effectively immortal. And I… haven’t seen evidence proving otherwise.

“He asked, and I said yes. We, um, d-didn’t want to cause major disruptions to the amalgamates’ lives, so I’ve m-made it a side project, more or less. I’ve called them in for examinations and various measurements twice over the p-past six months. The goal is to figure out if… you know, if they can die.”

Toriel knew exactly why Asgore had wanted this done. She knew the pain of being ageless while the world and everyone else grew older around her. Every day she had been frozen in time had been a reminder of what she had lost. Every day was one day closer to the deaths of the people around her, which was why she had isolated herself in the Ruins.

“We haven’t told the amalgamates yet,” Alphys continued. “W-we talked about that for a long time… we both think they should know, we j-just want to have more information to give them before we tell them. And… Asgore was going to tell you, I’m sure of it, but first he wanted to see what direction my research was leading us. H-he wasn’t trying to give me assignments behind your back, I promise.”

Toriel took a moment to consider all of that. “The amalgamates seem okay with the examinations?”

“Y-yes, of course,” Alphys replied. She looked down for a moment. “Honestly, sometimes I don’t know w-why they don’t hate me, b-but… they’re all happy now that they’re with their families again. All of them s-said they would be glad to come to the lab more frequently, which really surprised me.”

“Okay,” Toriel said. “Okay. I… don’t have a problem with any of that. I would like to be updated if you should discover something. May I mention it to Asgore?”

“Yeah, I’d be fine with that.”

There was a pause. “I think Asgore made the right decision,” Toriel said. “You are the correct person for this job, Alphys. I’m sure you will be able to do something for the amalgamates.”

The shadows of past guilt and pain and secrets melted off Alphys’s face and she beamed. It was a heartwarming thing to see. “Thank you, Toriel. It m-means a lot to hear you say that.” She paused, looking thoughtful, then added, “I th-think it would mean a lot to Asgore if you told him too. That he made a good choice.”

For a second, Toriel was baffled by this, but she realized Alphys was right. Asgore had always been indecisive due to anxiety over making the right choice. For someone who had lived as long as he had, he still experienced a lot of self-doubt. And since the Surfacing, it had gotten much worse.

She saw it. She knew where it came from. And that was why she frequently attempted to ignore it.

She did not have the words to reply. In her silence, Alphys turned back to the mirror, adjusted her glasses, and said, “Mettaton made me order some n-new frames. They’re supposed to match my dress.”

Toriel leapt on the change in topic. “Will they arrive on time?”

“They’re supposed to get here tomorrow.”

“Oh, good. I’m sure they will be lovely.”

 

* * *

 

“It was the urbanization,” Frisk says. “What seemed to make people the angriest was that their village changed so much so quickly. A lot of it has nothing to _do_ with monsters. I feel like an idiot.”

“Why?” Chara asks. “You couldn’t have known. If this were common knowledge Asgore and Toriel would have at least tried to address it by now.”

“But I should have thought of it. Nothing like that ever even came up. A few of those people had to foreclose on their homes because the housing market shifted immensely in a matter of months. Large businesses riding the wave of tourism bought up land so they could put up chain stores. Some local shops went under. Why is this the first time I’m hearing of this?”

“That kind of news would have been drowned out by our Surfacing,” Asriel says carefully. “I guess… I can see why those people would be mad at us. We kind of caused it to happen.”

“Monsters didn’t cause any of it,” Chara retorts. “The human reaction to monsters caused _all_ of it.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s good! It means they’re not really against _us_ , they just don’t like what they associate us with.” Asriel pauses. “Maybe we can turn some of those people around. If money’s a problem, we can help.”

“We can’t go throwing money at every issue and hope that fixes it,” Frisk says. “If we have the resources to help we should, it’s just… people are going to ask why we didn’t do this sooner. They’re also going to ask why we’re giving money to some people and groups and not others. It’s more complicated than just handing out money to people who need it. It shouldn’t be, but it is.”

Everyone is silent for a moment. “You also gotta acknowledge you’re getting a biased sample,” Sans says. “You can’t expect any eight people to be representative of a much larger population. And you know you didn’t meet with the people who would rather kill you than speak to you. You said Calder said he couldn’t even bring the subject up to some of his constituents.”

“Those are not people I can currently help,” Frisk says. “These people are, even if I don’t know how best to help them yet. They needed someone to listen to them. Now that I have, I can’t stand by. And maybe… if the people I cannot talk to right now see us helping others, they will be more receptive to conversation.”

“Think it’s time to tell your parents, kiddo?” Sans asks.

“Telling them might kill any other chance you would have to speak with others,” Chara points out.

“It might also ruin your chances to speak with Calder without them hovering,” Asriel adds. “Were you able to get anything out of him?”

“He would only confirm what we already figured out,” Frisk replies. “The racists bugged his office. He seemed like he really believes he’s being watched constantly.”

“Think he’s paranoid?” Chara asks. “What if he only thinks his office is bugged?”

“Doubt it,” Sans says. “That human’s saner than a lot of people in our family. If he says his office is bugged, I believe him.”

Frisk sighs through their nose. “I… want to talk to more people so I can get a better idea of what they’re feeling and thinking about. I do. But I don’t like keeping it a secret, and… if Calder’s actually being watched, what if the racist group gets angry with him for helping me?”

There is a beat of silence. “That’s kind of on him, isn’t it?” Asriel says. “He’s the one making the choice to help you.”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t asked.”

“Frisk,” Chara says slowly. “If you want to tell the parents, we will support you. If all of us together tell them they should let you keep doing this, they will be more likely to listen. Especially if Sans says so.”

“Puttin’ me on the spot?” Sans shoves his hands in his pockets. “Your mom might toast my bony butt for this, but you’re not a clueless little kid anymore. You’re already getting to be better at this political thing than your parents. If you have something to say, they should listen. If they need my encouragement to listen, I’m there, Frisk.”

This never occurred to Frisk. They never thought they might be able to do this independently with the sanction of their parents. They thought it had to be one or the other. Asgore and Toriel can be… overprotective. People _have_ tried to kill them multiple times since the Surfacing, so Frisk understands, but they need to be able to do more. Sans is right, they’re older now. They are capable of more. It wouldn’t be very determined of them if they didn’t at least try.

Frisk looks at Chara and Asriel, who nods. Sans, as always, is relaxed.

“Okay,” Frisk decides. “I’ll tell them. Soon, but not now. First I need to talk to Isla.”

 

* * *

 

Frisk and Asriel both spend a lot of time over the summer at the Embassy. Frisk is beginning to take on more responsibilities. They are asking for Asgore’s input on their projects less and less often. He still supervises them, but Frisk is doing far more than they were even a year ago.

Last summer, Asriel mostly followed him around, watching while he interacted with others and asking questions once Asgore had a moment to speak with his son. Now Asriel is participating occasionally in conversations and taking a closer look at the varying duties of the people who work here.

“Is Frisk going to join us for lunch today?” Asgore asks during a beautiful June afternoon. Once Frisk and Asriel are old and skilled enough to take over, on days like these, he will be outside in a garden.

Asriel stares at him for a split second, then takes a bite of his sandwich. He chews and swallows. “Um, no. They said they were on a roll editing their speech for Surface Day and they didn’t want to stop their momentum.”

That is unfortunate, but Asgore understands. Frisk likes to make sure their speeches are perfect.

“So, Dad,” Asriel says. “I, um… I have a question for you.”

“Sure thing, son.”

“I was – um. It’s been… a little weird lately. Did – did something happen between you and Mom?”

Asgore freezes. For some reason, this is something he never expected. When he moved in, he knew that there might be… tension between Toriel and him, but he assumed they would be able to be subtle about it and prevent their children from noticing.

Asriel has just proven him wrong. And, as he sits there, staring wide-eyed at his son, Asriel begins to look more and more worried. “Something happened, didn’t it? Is everything okay?”

He has to say something. “Everything is fine,” he replies, suddenly very aware of how not-fine his voice sounds. “That is, we… there was… um, we—”

Asriel’s eyes are getting wider and he is beginning to look disturbed. “Oh my gosh, Dad, you’re not about to tell me it was something dirty. I _know_ you’re not about to tell me it was something dirty, _ew_.”

Oh, dear. “Golly, son, of course not. Your mother and I only had a talk.”

Asriel squints suspiciously at him. “What did you talk about that made it weird?”

“We… talked about our friendship.” Have they been behaving oddly lately? They decided nothing would change, so… what changed? If nothing changed, how did Asriel notice?

His son cocks his head to one side. “That means you talked about getting back together.”

“We did talk about it, but we decided against it. Hence why I said we talked about our friendship.”

“When did this happen?”

“Pardon?”

“When did you have this conversation?”

Asgore does not know where he is going with this. “It was perhaps a month ago. Why?”

Asriel shrugs. “No reason.” He takes a bite, chews, swallows. He puts his sandwich down. “Actually… I would have liked to know you talked about it. I know – it’s not really any of my business, and I can’t speak for Frisk and Chara because I haven’t talked much with them about this, but I would have liked to know about it.”

Like it or not, his children are growing up. He can justify keeping things from them less and less frequently. Not that he and Toriel deliberately decided to not tell the children about it. It simply never crossed Asgore’s mind to tell them. He is not in the practice of disclosing his personal difficulties to his children.

Perhaps he should try being honest. Years ago he would have felt that this would be a burden to his children because they each have deep personal struggles of their own. But, maybe, if he speaks openly about his issues, he can reinforce that it is okay for his children to do so.

It is not as though this is a big deal, anyway. “I am sorry, my son. From now on, I will do my best to keep you informed.” He hesitates for a moment. “I think part of the reason why neither of us said anything is because neither of us knows what is going to happen. We are both dealing with… feelings that have been gradually shifting. We would not want to tell you one thing only to tell you something else days later.”

“Oh,” Asriel says. “I guess that makes sense.”

“I can tell you that we both fear what might happen if we got back together and were unable to make it work. We are comfortable with the way things are right now. You and Chara and Frisk seem comfortable, too. We do not wish to disrupt that.”

There is a pause. Finally, Asriel says, “I – don’t know how to feel about that. But I know I want you and Mom to be happy. Thank you for telling me.”

 

* * *

 

I’m staring at my computer screen, there are documents up because I’m putting together a framework for the case study on the student with the colorless soul, and I’m staring and at some point I realize I’m high.

I don’t remember taking my pills. When it was bad, but I was present, I used to agonize over it for hours. I’d count my pills and carry the bottle everywhere. There was a lot of crying. A lot of self-criticizing, telling myself I was weak. A lot of pretending I hadn’t made the decision yet. I don’t do that very much anymore.

Sometimes the self-critical logic wins out and I don’t take them. Sometimes I get a heating pad or an NSAID or do breathing exercises instead. And sometimes the self-directed guilt and anger just don’t happen because I don’t have the capacity for any of it. Sometimes I’m already numb and my head is blank and then it’s really easy to toss the pills down and forget I took them until I realize I’m stoned. And I get damn stupid when I’m stoned.

This is why it doesn’t surprise me when Sans comes to me with my pills in hand and wants to know why there are only nine left when my prescription was last filled in March.

“You left them on the counter in the bathroom,” he says. “I saw the date when I went to put them away. What’s going on?”

“Um,” I say, blanking.

He waits a beat, then says, “Please don’t lie to me right now.”

I can sense things stirring at the back of my brain, disorganized and charged and wow I really don’t need that shit right now. When I detach and get high, I’m doing it because there are things in my head that are waking up and I need them to be asleep. “It’s – not that. I want to avoid this conversation. Any chance you’ll let me?”

He shakes his head. “Isla… we both know this means there’s something else. You stopped overworking to the point at which we felt like we had to intervene, yeah, but you make sure to keep yourself busy. And in the moments you’re not, this is happening, and I know this was a thing you used to do. So what’s going on?”

I’m blanking again. The gears in my head are jammed and I prefer this to what my brain could be doing otherwise, so I make no attempt to change it.

After several seconds, Sans asks, “How stoned are you right now?”

That’s a question I can answer. “Pretty stoned. I don’t remember taking them.”

“How often have you been stoned around me and I didn’t notice?”

“I – I don’t—” The thing about being high is that my conscious defenses weaken. My mouth opens much more easily. “I don’t take them if I know I’m going to be around people. People are… already distracting. Good distracting. I need distraction.”

The pause is far too long. Finally, he comes over to me and sits on the bed next to me. “We can talk about this in depth later, when you’re sober. And we will, but right now I need you to give me an idea of what’s going on. Just an idea, so I know.”

My head is empty. And when it’s empty, the things I don’t want there always creep in. “Do you remember what I told you after the first assassination attempt? When I was shot, and Toriel and Undyne were shot?”

He doesn’t take very long to reply. “How you remembered being shot as a child when you took that first bullet for Asriel?”

I nod. “You told me that you thought it was a good thing you remembered,” Sans says. “You said that your capability of accessing the memory meant it was no longer too painful for you to handle. I asked you if it was bothering you, and you said it wasn’t.”

“It didn’t, at first. I – after I was shot, the first time – it was gradual. At first, I was completely numb to it. Then I just didn’t like thinking about it. Then thinking about it made me a little anxious, and later it made me upset, and then I just couldn’t touch any of it. It got to the point at which any reminder sent me into severe panic attacks or flashbacks and I spent every fucking waking moment of my life distracting myself because if I let up, just for a second, if I let a space open up in my brain, something was going to sneak into my head that I didn’t want in there, something I couldn’t bear to think about, and then I started having nightmares about it, too, so the obvious solution was to stop sleeping, because I—”

“Hey,” he cuts in. His tone is hesitant, like he doesn’t know whether or not he should have interrupted me, but my mouth snaps shut. “Okay. So you think this is following the same pattern? You think this is going to get worse?”

“I… don’t know. I thought I’d be able to cope, but I’m obviously not practicing healthy coping skills. There’s one other thing. Riley said something, and since then I’ve been thinking about it more.”

“Riley Sanders? What did he say?”

“He, um, wanted to talk about the shooting a little. It was bothering him. And he said, ‘It’s not ever going to go away, is it?’ And… he was right.”

“I thought… you knew that already. You’ve said that to the kids. You’ve said that to me. It’s something you have to deal with for the rest of your life.”

“Yes, but… somehow, I thought it would be different for me. I’m the genius psychologist and this happened almost two decades ago. I spent my entire childhood being told how exceptional I was, and _this_ is the thing, this is the one important thing that is the same for me as it is for everyone else. I spent so much time studying it, convinced that educating myself would be the way to beat it, and I thought I did, but…”

Sans slowly reaches over, closes my laptop, and sets it aside. “This is allowed to still bother you. It’s allowed to bother you forever.”

I want my computer back. My hands need to do something, something I can put into my brain. “I… know. The logic is there, but the way I feel isn’t.”

There is a pause. Finally, he says, “Shit, Isla. I dunno what else to tell ya, since telling you that you shouldn’t feel that way would be stupid. I think you should start talking to your therapist again. The narcotic abuse needs to stop. I get it, I get that’s it’s a safety net and sometimes you’ll need it, but you used to go through a bottle in fourteen months. This year you’ve already plowed through almost two in six months.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“You gonna call him?”

“Yeah, I just… don’t feel like I can leave Chara for any amount of time right now. Not until after their surgery.”

“So tell him you can’t do any heavy lifting just yet. It’s still important you make him aware there’s a problem.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll call him.”

He climbs into bed. “You’re gonna do something about it, so it’s okay. Bedtime?”

“Bedtime. Cuddle?”

Usually we don’t, because we don’t feel strongly compelled to, but also because I almost always wake up at least once a night to pee. But the opiates are pulling my eyelids down and I want to. Being high brings me down a little, makes me less intense, more relaxed.

“Sure.” He turns off the lamp and lies down. I settle myself in next to him and in a matter of minutes, I am out.


	10. Relapse: recurrence of symptoms of a disease after a period of improvement.

From the beginning, it was all too much. That Chara was here, that their death had been by suicide, that they had wanted to kill others of their own kind, that they had been with Frisk, that they and Frisk – the timelines. Asriel, without a soul, had once killed them all. Frisk and Chara had done the same.

But Chara had killed prior to their fall into the Underground. They had killed another human.

Asriel was upset over Isla’s casual acceptance of Chara’s self-harm. It made Asgore wonder if they had done the right thing in keeping Chara from it so long ago. They had been very careful not to communicate to their child that they were bad for thinking about it or doing it. It was – just not healthy, and Chara never spoke of what made them want to do that to themself.

Then again, Asgore could remember Isla, splayed out on the couch, head in Sans’s lap and Bean curled up on her belly, more relaxed than he had ever seen her. That had not been very long ago. She freely admitted to occasionally using her pain medication to control her anxiety and to prompt sleep when she had insomnia, and she seemed to think there was nothing wrong with that, as long as it was infrequent. As long as she controlled it, and it did not control her.

She had killed someone for shooting her and killing others. It had impacted her deeply. It was clear that Chara’s kill had impacted them, too, which begged the question: why had they killed another human at such a young age?

Asgore was not sure he wanted to know that answer.

He was going downstairs with Toriel. Chara was asleep with Frisk and Isla was consoling their son. “I am furious with Sans,” Toriel said suddenly. “But… I hate how complicated this is. He was afraid, Asgore. Afraid of Chara. Sans rarely shows fear.”

“Sans remembers things that technically didn’t happen,” he replied. He was not sure he could justify being angry with Sans. He did not attack Chara, physically or verbally. He had revealed something Asgore was not sure he wanted to know. Then again, it was true, whether he knew it or not. Just as what made Chara kill that human, whatever made them want to hurt themself, was still true even though he did not know it. Refusing to acknowledge any part of this would not make it go away. Not knowing something did not mean it did not exist.

“I feel bad,” Toriel said. “I should not have… I was hostile towards him. I would hate for this to ruin our friendship, but how can I be friends with somebody who believes my child is an irredeemable killer?”

“Perhaps Sans needs more time.” Sans and Chara needed to talk it out. Asgore had little doubt about that. Not immediately, of course, but he was so used to telling Toriel what she wanted to hear that he still sometimes did it automatically. He almost put his hand on her back to direct her, but stopped. Sometimes the urge to touch her was overwhelming. It did not have to be intimate touch, or even affectionate, just – any contact at all. Anything. Just – a moment in which he could pretend everything was okay.

Instead, he gestured towards the living room. “Why don’t you sit down, Tori? I will make us tea.”

The nickname slipped out and for a few seconds he berated himself, stupid, he knew she hated that, but she only nodded, sighed, “Alright,” and went into the other room. Perhaps she hadn’t noticed?

Asgore let the ritual calm him down. He had done this thousands of times, especially when it became unbearable to walk past the empty rooms in his home. He had them all back, now. Asriel had been working hard to recover and Chara was here and even if Toriel was not with him, she could at least look him in the face and talk to him without scowling, without only seeing the part of himself he hated more than anything.

When he handed her a cup of tea, she said, “Thank you,” in a tone that was sincere. It was probably stupid to feel so grateful for something as small and likely unconscious as that, but he was grateful anyway.

They sat in silence for a while. She had always been smarter than him. Maybe she knew.

“Tori,” he uttered softly. “Why do you think Chara killed another human?”

She hesitated to answer. “Your guess is as good as mine, Asgore.”

“No, it’s not. That has never been true and you know it.”

She was not looking at him. She took a sip of tea. “Do you remember how they behaved around us at first? They were hesitant to eat in front of us. They were meticulous in cleaning up after themself. They were shocked when we got them their own bed. They were shocked at any kindness we showed them.”

His heart felt heavy. They’d had this conversation before. “Whoever was responsible for Chara on the surface was not kind to them.”

“Well, I think it was more than that, Asgore. I believe they killed in self-defense.”

So did he, even though the implications were horrifying. Had somebody tried to kill them? Had somebody made them believe their life was worthless, driving them to finish the act with buttercups, even after they had escaped whoever made them feel that way?

Asgore didn’t intend to vocalize it at all, but it came out in a whisper. “Did we… do something wrong?”

Toriel sighed. She raised a hand in his direction, palm-up, and it took him a few seconds to realize what she wanted. Carefully, he grasped her hand in his and immediately felt as though his stomach was doing backflips.

She looked tired. It was like peering into a mirror. “I do not believe so,” she said. “We did everything we could with the knowledge we had. Now we have more knowledge. We can adjust our expectations and behavior accordingly.” She paused, gently stroking over the back of his hand with a thumb. The pads on his fingers and palms and feet were pink, but hers were black. “Our family is presently bigger than I ever thought it would be. We have their support, too. We can do this.”

That she had said ‘our family’ was almost enough to move him to tears. “Yes, dear. You are right, of course.”

 

* * *

 

Frisk sometimes comes to me to run ideas by me or to rehearse their speeches. It has been a long time since they have done that, but the last time they were here, I don’t remember them being this tense.

They close my office door and sit down. “I’ve been going through Solomon Calder to talk to his disgruntled constituents. I have talked with nineteen people. Next Tuesday I’m adding a few more to the list. Chara and Asriel have been covering for me with Mom and Dad. Sans comes with me in case it should become necessary to flee. So far, it hasn’t been necessary. I asked him not to tell you, but he only agreed because I told him I would tell you.”

Well. Okay. This is a lot. “Okay. Tell me more.”

They pause to look at me. “Are you mad at Sans?”

I called Andy the morning after Sans found my pills. I haven’t told anyone else I officially have a drug problem again, not even Papyrus or Shannon. I’m not sure I know how yet. This might be my first real relapse. Sure, I had ups and downs as a teenager, but even during my ups I wasn’t really okay. It can’t be a relapse if you weren’t okay in the first place, right?

“No,” I say. “I haven’t exactly been inspiring confidence in Sans lately. He had good reasons not to tell me.”

They nod slowly. “There are a few other things I need to tell you, and I need you to hold off on all the planning you’re going to want to do until the end, okay?”

I feel myself starting to grin, but I smother it. They know me too well. “Sure.”

“Good. First, Solomon Calder told me he thinks his office is bugged. He thinks it’s the racists. He hasn’t given me any proof, but he basically refuses to talk to me about this on his office phone. He always insists on meeting in low-key public places near the neutral zone, on our side of the city.”

We had heavy suspicions that there was a racist organization, and this all but confirms it. Unless Calder is playing us, which… I’m not the best person to make that call. I’m too biased.

“The people I’ve been talking to have bad feelings about their lives being disrupted so suddenly by the Surfacing,” Frisk continues. “I don’t blame them for that. That’s hard. Probably a third of them told me they experienced hardship as a direct result of the urbanization, but I bet it’s affected more people than that. People lost their homes, people lost their business to the big companies that came in after we settled, and people lost their way of life.” They pause. “I never thought about how fast it was happening. I mean, I did, but every time I thought about it, I believed it wasn’t happening fast _enough_. But we got this city up _really_ fast, and… we just kind of expected the people already living here to adapt at the same speed. That wasn’t really fair.”

“Frisk, we can’t apologize that the monsters got what they deserved,” I say. “They deserve to be up here, if that’s what they choose. They deserve to live without fear and with equal rights, and we haven’t even managed that yet.”

“I know,” they reply. “I know, and I’m not going to stop advocating for them. I… think we need to do a better job. If it’s about winning support from the locals, we can’t just do our thing and expect them to adapt because it makes things fairer overall. We have to help them if we expect them to help us. Four of the people I spoke with thanked me for listening to them. I think a lot of people just don’t feel heard. Their lives changed suddenly, too, but their voices got drowned out because of ours.”

What they’re saying makes sense, but I can see it going down a dangerous road. “People have tried to kill us. People have gotten together and planned assassination attempts. Individuals have come at us alone. I don’t think those people feel unheard. I think those people feel an irrational hate that no amount of logic or sympathy or support is going to overcome.”

We have been lucky in that regard. Camp Wendell was the first mass shooting in over three decades. Gun regulation was tight prior, but afterwards, the government cracked down hard. We’re still lucky nobody came at us with an assault weapon. So far it’s been single-action firearms and knives, but I can’t discount that someone might obtain or modify a weapon illegally.

“Those people only make up a tiny fraction of humans,” Frisk says. “But they’re irrelevant. The people who want to talk are relevant, and if only a small number of people want to talk and want us to listen, we have to try. You can’t tell me those people aren’t worth it.”

“A marginal improvement in the quality of their lives isn’t worth yours. Someone could kill you. Someone could hear you’re doing this, pretend they want to talk, and kill you when you get close and your guard is down.”

They begin to fidget. “You’re not going to change my mind about this. I’m going to tell Mom and Dad about it. We’ll take more precautions, but I’m not going to stop. And… this brings me to my third point. You… I can’t thank you enough for what you did when the monsters first Surfaced. Nobody was going to listen to them at first. Nobody was going to listen to me, either, because I was so young and I couldn’t talk all the time. You made other humans listen. You made them look at us and deal with us and you said, out loud, when people were being mean or unfair so nobody could pretend it wasn’t happening. There are things that would not have happened, or would have happened much later after a longer struggle, without you.”

They’re intermittently chewing on their tongue and they don’t seem to want to hold eye contact. They’re uncomfortable. Am I making them uncomfortable? I don’t think I am, I’m not doing anything. I’m not scowling at them, I’m just listening to them.

“And that’s why this is so hard.” Their voice starts to wobble. Oh my god, they’re going to cry. “Things have changed, and w-we’re not moving anywhere anymore. We’re not making progress for us or for our human neighbors. That means we have to try something new, which is why I’ve been—” and here tears begin leaking from their eyes and they start crying in earnest, “—sorry, I’m sorry, I thought I could – please don’t hate me, I’ll shut up—”

Holy shit. “Frisk, calm down. I don’t hate you.” I reach across the table and take one of their hands in mine. They need a free hand to wipe their face. “I love you, okay? Don’t shut up. Try to relax. Take a breath. If you want to, you can tell me why you’re upset, but don’t feel as though you have to.”

They snatch up a tissue and make an attempt at drying their eyes. “I – don’t want to hurt your feelings,” they say miserably. “I, I’m so _bad_ at this part. My, my bio-mom—”

Their mouth snaps shut. I know this part. Their biological mother made them feel like they existed to be an accessory to her. She made every single one of their actions and inactions about herself. Her narcissistic parenting eventually culminated in abuse and abandonment.

I stroke the back of their hand with my thumb and wait, but they can’t get anything else out about her. Instead, they say, “You were the first human adult I trusted, the first one I loved since – since – and I feel so fucking ungrateful. I’m not, I promise, I’m sorry, I love you, but…”

We’re talking politics, they talk about my role after the Surfacing, they start talking about change, get upset, and apologize repeatedly to me. I think I know where they are going with this.

They pull their hand away from me so they can cover their face. “I’m sorry, I’m r-really sorry—”

“Frisk,” I interrupt, “are you trying to fire me?”

They let out a whimper and sink into their chair. Well. Not what I expected when I woke up this morning.

“Hey,” I say. I have to be patient. Hell, this brought up their damn birth mother, I _have_ to be patient. “Please try to calm down. I’m not mad and I don’t want you to be upset because you’re worried about upsetting me. We can talk about this and it will be okay. I am still going to love you when this is over, I promise.”

They reach for another tissue and blow their nose. “Sorry,” they whisper. They focus on controlling their breathing, even closing their eyes for a minute to ground themself.

When they open their eyes, I ask, “Do you want to keep talking?”

They shudder, but I see that spark in their eyes, and they nod. “You – haven’t adapted,” they say quietly. “You’re still really aggressive with people. If we’re going to start a conversation, we need to send the message that we’re ready to listen. I don’t think you can do that without having a weapon ready and being on-edge, waiting for the moment you have to use it. Am I wrong?”

I shake my head. “No, but – what happens when you need someone ready to defend you? There have been multiple attempts on our lives. You cannot reasonably expect that will stop because you want to talk.”

“I don’t.”

“Then I need to be here. I can leave politics completely, if you honestly think that’s the best thing to do. But I need to be here, just in case.”

“Just in case what?” Frisk watches me. “Are you about to tell me you can’t leave because you need to be a shield in case someone comes in here with a gun? That it doesn’t matter if you end up killing somebody because you already have a kill on your soul?”

I open my mouth to reply and nothing comes out. No point, I guess, because they already said it.

Their expression pinches in sadness. True sadness, not the panicked crying they were doing earlier. “Isla, you’re worth so much more to us than that. You’re more than a human shield and you know as well as I do that every kill matters. Every goddamn one.”

They’re right and I can’t think too deeply about their words because my head will go somewhere I absolutely cannot let it go. “I want to talk about updating security before I go,” I say, changing the subject. “I… can’t trust that people won’t be violent. I wish I could, but you’re right. I don’t think I can.”

“Okay.” They nod. “We can do that. I’m really sorry.”

“I am too. I – this is irrelevant, and don’t think I’m telling you this to guilt-trip you, I’m telling you this because I should tell our whole family about it. I’ve been abusing my narcotics for about six months. They’ve always been my safety net, but I was safety netting a lot during the late fall and winter, and then instead of being an every-other-month thing, they were a biweekly thing. Sans found out, and I called my therapist, but I’m going to wait before beginning treatment again.”

“Oh.” They stare at my desk. “I’m sorry to put this on you on top of that. I—”

“Frisk, _please_ stop apologizing for doing the right thing. It’s okay.” Not much of my time is currently spent on politics, but getting me out of the Embassy will send a message. It will leave me with seeing patients and doing research. It’s plenty to do, really. I just have an intense desire to stay, and it’s for the reason Frisk said. I feel like I should be a human shield and obviously that’s messed up and something I should address with Andy.

I sigh. I need to figure out where to move my practice. Maybe I can find a place nearer to the lab. “What do we do now?”

“We tell my parents,” Frisk answers.

 

* * *

 

Toriel has many questions for Frisk. Most of them involve their safety. Perhaps she is slightly disheartened that her child felt they had to keep this from her, but her primary concern is about them.

She finds herself surprised when Asgore says, “I trust your judgement, Frisk, but I am a little worried about the risks you have been taking. I believe we can come up with a safer way to do this.”

Isla is nodding, but Toriel was not quite ready to condone this. She wanted to be sure Frisk understood how dangerous their actions were before proceeding. But… she supposes Asgore possesses more awareness than she does of their political abilities. And she knows Frisk. They are so compassionate and determined, of course they would insist on helping somebody as soon as they realize that person needs help. Perhaps she should defer on this.

“I agree,” she says. “We must establish a protocol to keep you safe, especially if you are going to see greater numbers of people. Would you be agreeable to that, my child?”

Frisk nods. “As long as it’s not too over-the-top. It’s hard to get anyone to trust us to listen if we’re clearly displaying we don’t trust them.”

Mettaton leans forward in his chair. “You said you had two things to tell us, darling. What is the other?”

Frisk exchanges a look with Isla. “My leave from the Embassy,” Isla replies. “Frisk and I talked about it already. We wanted to discuss the best way to announce it.”

Ah, this is why Frisk asked Mettaton if they could talk in his penthouse. They want to solicit his advice, since he is somebody who interacts constantly with the public.

“Leave?” Asgore repeats worriedly. “Why?”

Isla looks at Frisk again, who begins to fidget. “Isla has a reputation for… being overprotective of us,” Frisk says after a moment. “She tells someone they’re wrong and how as soon as they say a wrong thing. People don’t always feel like they can talk to us because…”

They waver. Toriel knows how hard it is for them to criticize the actions of someone they love. She can only imagine how difficult it was for them to approach Isla with this.

“Because I slap them across the face with facts,” Isla finishes. Her voice is very soft. “Facts are important, but Frisk’s recent progress has me believing they are more important to me than they are to people confronted with abrupt change and challenges to their worldviews. Feelings are more important to them. Frisk let them express some feelings and finally started a conversation. When these people feel as though somebody is listening to them, they will be more likely to listen to us.

“Frisk and I spoke about this already. They brought these facts to me, and I won’t be one to deny reality. They tried something new, it worked, and it’s true we have yet to see exactly how well it will work, but I am in the way. I am not going to stay in the way.”

There is a heavy pause. Finally, Mettaton says, “Now we need to decide whether or not to call this a firing? Am I understanding this correctly?”

Frisk and Isla both nod as Asgore says, “Hold on a second. Are we not moving a little quickly here?” Toriel shoots him a look only to see that he seems to be very concerned. “Isla, did something happen?” he asks, addressing her directly.

Isla shifts and the light catches the silver in her hair. Abruptly, Toriel notices how pale she is and how this is the first time she has so much as moved in her seat since sitting down. Toriel looks for signs of weight loss but Isla’s weight fluctuates so frequently she honestly cannot tell how thin is too thin anymore. Isla has always looked her age, but right now, in this moment, she looks far older than her thirty-one years.

“If you need a reason to fire me, I’ve been abusing my medication fairly heavily for the past six months,” she replies. “I can pee in a cup if you need written proof for the paperwork.”

Frisk does not react to this. They knew. Toriel has to ask. “Does Sans know?”

Isla nods. “He noticed. My therapist knows. I’m going to do something about it, just not right now, so it will be there if you need it.”

“Did something happen to provoke this?” Asgore asks. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

“Nothing you don’t already know about,” Isla answers. “And no, not at the moment. I was in denial about this for a while and I’m not ready to deal with it quite yet. Besides, we already have something to talk about.”

Another pause during which both Frisk and Asgore look as though they want to say something in response to this, but neither of them does. Toriel plans on asking Sans later if he believes everything is okay, since Isla is quite determined not to speak of this now. Sans will be honest with her.

“We will not say you were fired,” Asgore finally says. “And I refuse to have you take a drug test. We can tell the public you became ill and had to cut back on working in order to recover. That would not quite be a lie.”

“Why do we have to say anything?” Toriel wonders. “It is our expectation that eventually Frisk and Asriel will take over the political duties of leading our people, Asgore. You and I both would rather be doing other things. This could simply be the beginning of an older generation stepping down to give the next the opportunity to demonstrate their readiness for this responsibility. Why does it have to be something beyond that?”

“If I may, Queen Toriel,” Mettaton cuts in brightly. “We are assuming that the public – humans _and_ monsters – are going to believe whatever we tell them, but, as we have discussed, people generally believe what they want to believe. I can guarantee you that a not insignificant number of people will believe Isla was fired if we tell them she quit for whatever reason – say, she got sick or wanted to put more hours into research. There isn’t much we can do about that, and frankly, we should let them believe what they want.”

“Let the media argue over what they believe happened?” Frisk asks.

Mettaton beams at them. “Precisely. I could chip in, of course, and repeat whatever you decide to say. I think the vast majority of the monster community will believe you, but some of the humans will speculate. When they do, you’re going to find that the humans who want to assume the best of you will do so, just as the humans who want to assume the worst of you will do so. If you are vague now, you can see what emerges as the most favorable opinion, in case you need to adjust the truth later.”

An unsettlingly large portion of human politics is manipulation and money. Supposedly things were much worse a century or so ago, and radical change has occurred since then. There are strict regulations on the monetary component of political campaigns and if politicians state blatant untruths, they are heavily criticized and sometimes vilified. Science and medicine saved this world during the pandemic some decades back. It is still a fresh memory for humanity, so the vast majority of humans have an appropriate respect for facts, reality, and the objective truth.

That does not mean the truth cannot be bent, or that one cannot leave a few details out, or emphasize the importance of relatively unimportant things. It happens and Toriel cannot wait until Frisk and Asriel have enough experience to take over the bulk of the political responsibilities for the monster community. She is tired of dealing with it, and if she is honest, she and Asgore were never the best politicians anyway.

“That’s a good idea,” Isla says. “You can refer to my clear dislike of media coverage when they ask why you’re not answering horrible questions about me.”

Asgore sighs heavily. “I do not like this.”

“You don’t have to like it to announce it,” Isla says. She stands. “Let me know if you need help editing your statement. And choose whether you want me to appear with you when we go public. I will do whatever you decide. Mettaton, I need to talk with you about that data I had you gather.”

“Certainly, darling,” Mettaton replies. He joins Isla in the next room.

Toriel leans forward. “Frisk, I would like to discuss ideas for increasing security measures for your project. Would that be okay?”

“Sure, Mom,” Frisk replies. “I have some requests.”

Toriel exchanges a look with Asgore. He does not appear to be surprised, but she is, even though she should not be. She should be expecting Frisk to take charge more often. “Of course, my child. Go ahead.”

 

* * *

 

I spend the next couple of weeks lying low. My office is moved into the lab, where I spend a lot of time compiling and analyzing data about souls. The college undergraduates who are earning academic credit by doing grunt work in the lab stare at me for about two days, because of course they use the internet or watch the news or talk to people who do. They figure out I’m there as a scientist and that I’m a pretty damn useful resource when they have questions, so they begin talking to me instead of awkwardly tiptoeing around me.

I don’t know if I want to keep doing research at this rate. It’s kind of nice to turn this part of my brain on and work with something this structured and objective, but I don’t feel all that driven to do it. At least, I don’t feel driven in the way I was directly after the Surfacing, when I knew my voice was the only one other humans would hear at first, or how I decided in a fraction of a second to take a bullet for Asriel.

This just doesn’t feel quite right. I suppose it’s not unlikely the relapsed drug problem is contributing to it, but right now I have people in my life who need my support more than I need to delve into something that’s probably much deeper than I think it is. It has to wait.

My sister helps me distract myself when it blows up. I stay off the internet. It’s July, she’s due in early October, and she is perpetually irritated when she has to go outside because it’s hot and she’s pregnant. I crank down the thermostat and before long Shannon is sitting on the couch munching on a giant bowl of cheese poofs and I’m next to her, wrapped in a blanket.

“How was your last ultrasound?” I ask.

“Everything looks good,” she replies. “I’ve gained more weight than they expected, but the cravings hit _hard_.”

“It’s probably better than morning sickness.”

“Probably.” She pauses. “My OB sent me to the soul lab. Apparently human fetuses develop a rudimentary soul around six months. Mine’s there, but not much is detectable about it.”

“Alphys mentioned that experiment a while—”

The front door opens and slams. “Isla?” Asriel yells. “Are you here?”

“Over here,” I call.

I could tell by his tone, but when he stomps into the living room, Asriel’s shoulders are back and his fists are clenched. The aggressive posture fades a bit when he sees Shannon. “Oh,” he says. “Hi, Shannon.”

“What’s up, Asriel?” Shannon asks.

“Um,” he replies, gaze sliding to me.

“It’s okay.” I pat the cushion next to me. “We have a minute. What’s going on?”

He hesitates before sitting down next to me. “Have you heard what people are saying online?”

I shake my head. “I haven’t looked. Frisk texted me and told me it wouldn’t be a good idea, and I agree with them.”

“People are telling lies about us.”

“We knew that would happen. It’s okay, Asriel. We’ve already talked about how to respond to it. We need to wait for things to die down first.”

Asriel flexes his claws a few times, then slumps back into the couch. “I guess. This sucks.”

I reach over and pat his hand. Shannon takes the opportunity to change the topic. “Hey, Asriel. One of my monster coworkers asked me why adult humans gender babies at birth. I didn’t really have an answer, but I was wondering how monsters do it. Do you know?”

Asriel blinks. “Of course I know. Monsters can sense souls, so a monster child’s soul tells us what gender they are, or aren’t.”

“Do monsters keep the gender or lack of gender they’re born with?”

“Usually not. Most monster babies aren’t born with a gender. About half develop one in the first few years of life. Some never do, some do later on. My parents said I did when I was five.”

“So… how does the sex organ thing work?”

“Shannon, not all monsters have sex organs,” I say.

“I mean, that’s just biology,” Asriel says. Four years ago, that question would have visibly embarrassed him. He’s much better at masking it now. “Sometimes the identity of a soul can influence development of the body. Sometimes the type of monster is the only thing that influences biology. Everybody’s different.” He leans forward, looking at my sister. “This is going to be a weird question, but… can I touch your stomach?”

“Sure,” Shannon replies immediately. “I think the kid’s sleeping now, so you probably won’t feel kicking.”

He stands and quickly approaches her. “That’s okay. I’ve never… been close to a pregnant human before.”

He hesitates, so she grabs his wrist and plants his palm on her abdomen. In spite of myself, I’m smiling because he’s such a sweet boy. And Shannon completely distracted him from his anger.

I make eye contact with my sister behind Asriel’s back and mouth _thank you_. She winks back at me.


	11. Risk: exposure to danger, harm, or loss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was not too much action in the first half of this story. That is not the case for the second half.
> 
> Also, if anyone is curious about details of any of the characters, like soul color or birthdays or other trivial crap, just ask? I have stockpiled quite a bit of information that will likely never make its way into the story. Much of it isn't spoilery, so I wouldn't mind divulging some of it.

Usually it is Toriel who calls the family meetings. Typically she confers with Asgore, who agrees with whatever she has already decided, and then they gather the children to talk.

This time, it is the children who wish to meet and it is clear they have spoken beforehand. This is how they end up around the table one summer afternoon, with the children all looking unusually serious.

Chara begins without preamble. “A few months back, you two talked about getting back together,” they say. “And when Asriel asked Dad about it, he was told part of the reason you chose not to try again was because of us. Because you were worried about what a second breakup would do to us.”

Asgore told Toriel after Asriel approached him, but for some reason Toriel assumed that would be the end of the conversation. She did not expect her children to talk about this amongst themselves.

“That is correct,” Toriel replies, unsure of what to say. “It is a legitimate concern.”

“No, it’s not,” Asriel says quietly. “That’s what we wanted to tell you.”

“This is about you,” Frisk adds. “We’re not telling you what to do, and we’re not saying we know all of your reasoning. We shouldn’t, because it’s about you, not us. And because it isn’t about us, we shouldn’t be the deciding factor.”

Toriel exchanges a glance with Asgore. “It… is not quite that simple,” he says. “You are our children. Even if you were old enough to be out of the house – and you’re not – you would be impacted by our decision. We have to consider that.”

“Okay,” Chara says. “So what if we tell you we want you to go for it?”

Asgore has no reply, and Toriel finds she does not either. All she manages to do is echo Asgore. “It is – not that simple, my child.”

“Of course not,” Frisk responds. “That’s what we’re saying. It can’t be so simple that we’re the only reason you won’t take the chance. We can’t know everything that has happened, but—”

Asriel smacks an open palm on the table. “Frisk is being too polite. For the rest of this conversation, I’m not going to be polite. We’re afraid you’re using us as a blanket excuse to not examine your emotions, and you are _not_ allowed to do that. It’s not fair to us or yourselves.”

It is so strange. Her son has changed so much, and it is so hard to think of it as a change Asriel has undergone when sometimes he sounds so much like Flowey. The time he spent as Flowey is a part of him. Toriel wishes it was not, since it causes him so much pain, but it will be something he has to live with for the rest of his life – which, she reminds herself, may be centuries upon centuries if he does not have biological children.

“Well,” Asgore starts, “we hear you, Asriel, but we cannot disregard you completely. We are a family.”

“We’re not asking for that,” Chara says. “We’re asking that when you talk about this, neither of you brings us up to end the conversation. You should have that conversation, no matter the outcome. It might be bad. You might end up being unable to be friends anymore. No matter what happens, it is going to affect us. We know that’s a possibility. And if we are willing to take that risk, you should be willing too.”

Toriel’s instinct is to look at Asgore, to see what he thinks of this and to use their years of shared parenting to exchange a single glance and agree on how to proceed in that moment, but she can’t. She feels her magic stirring and she tries to tell herself to calm down, but this does not work, either.

She is mentally floundering for an excuse, an acceptable change of topic, _anything_ , and then Asgore’s phone rings.

When he sees the caller ID, he looks up apologetically. “It is the Embassy.”

“Go ahead, Asgore,” Toriel says. She needs just a little more time to think.

Or not, because she keeps drawing blanks after he picks up. Asgore’s brow scrunches in confusion. “I’m sorry, who?” A pause, and then he says, “I will be in as soon as I can. Please move them somewhere more private until I can get there. Thank you.”

He hangs up and stares at his phone. “Dad?” Asriel asks.

Asgore looks up. He seems… tired. “I was just told Wallace Vance’s wife and daughter are at the Embassy. They wish to speak with us. It sounds as if there was a domestic dispute.”

There is a pause. “Are you telling us that asshole beat the crap out of his wife and kid?” Chara asks.

“Not the daughter,” Asgore replies. “She talked her mother into coming to the Embassy. She brought her friend along and he works on the police force, so I have no idea how intense this might be.”

Frisk stands. “I’ll come with you.”

Toriel looks at them. “Are you certain, my child? Perhaps I should go, in case anybody needs to be healed.”

“If the cops get involved, they will want to take pictures of bruises or injuries as evidence of domestic violence,” Frisk says quietly. “Nobody can heal anyone yet. I’m going.”

Asriel and Chara exchange a look, but neither of them protests. Frisk’s face is stubbornly determined.

“Okay,” Toriel says after a moment. “Please, the instant you need help, call us. We will be here.”

 

* * *

 

Sans probably won’t be giving lectures as a TA, but he will be running review sessions and answering questions. He hasn’t taught in any official capacity in his life, so he needs practice. I spend some of my newfound free time on campus being his practice audience. He’s doing the basic physics course all year, electricity and magnetism fall semester, and quantum mechanics spring semester. The PI he works for is in the physics department and told him that he’ll be able to teach next year, presuming this year goes well for him.

As I’m looking over the whiteboard, something not incredibly relevant occurs to me. “Are they making you wear formalwear?”

Sans shrugs. “No, but it’ll be a problem if I show up in sweatpants and slippers.”

I snort in laughter. “Maybe you should get some practice wearing real shoes.”

“Or I could find some slippers that look like shoes.”

“We'll have to go shopping. I took basic physics in college, and you’ve successfully refreshed my understanding of magnetism. It was honestly really good, Sans. You’re good at this. You should know that.” I stand. “I’m going to go grab us some dinner from the Embassy’s cafeteria. It’s Thursday.”

He looks hopefully at me. “Thursday is fritter day at the Embassy.”

I chuckle. “I know, that’s why I’m going there. Hopefully they’ll have those zucchini ones you love.”

“You gonna be alright going there?”

“Yeah. I think it will look weirder if I avoid the place entirely. See you soon.”

“Sure. We’ll do a little astrophysics after food.”

Ebott University is maybe a ten-minute walk from Main Street. It’s not particularly exciting. There are mostly apartments and shops between campus and the urban center of Newer Home.

I’m sweating by the time I get there. The receptionist is talking to a human man I don’t know, but they wave to me just like they did when I used to come in for work. The cafeteria is right off the atrium in the back of the building – there are doors that open onto a patio with tables and chairs so people can eat outside. The patio abuts the gardens, so it gets crowded when the weather is nice.

Right before I can enter the cafeteria, I hear a familiar voice. I turn around. Asgore and Frisk have arrived and they both look apprehensive. The human at the receptionist’s desk is talking to Asgore. As I’m watching, they turn and begin to head towards the elevator.

I am off to the side and they are focused. They do not see me. There is something about the human – about the way he’s walking. Why does he have a coat on in the middle of summer?

Frisk walks up to the elevator and pushes the button. The human has stopped a little farther back, behind Frisk and Asgore. He reaches inside his coat.

He has a gun. I don’t see it yet, but I have trained myself to recognize when someone is packing heat.

As soon as I realize it, I start moving. I yell right before I slam into him, taking him down to the floor.

His phone flies out of his hand. Frisk freezes. Asgore gasps my name in shock. It doesn’t matter. I already have one hand wrapped around the human’s wrist and with my other, I’m grabbing the gun in the holster on his belt. The metal detectors should have caught this and security should have detained this human. I don’t know what happened, but I do know I’m handling it now.

The human yells, “Stop!” and one of his hands slams into my shoulder. I hold on because the other hand comes around the gun, his fingers curling around my hand clutching the gun.

“Asgore, get Frisk out of here!” I snarl, sitting up and back.

“Isla, you must stop!” Asgore has stepped in front of Frisk, but he looks as though he’s going to intervene. He _can’t_ , one good hit and he’s dead, just like any other monster.

Simultaneously, Asgore says, “He is a police officer!” and the human yells, “I’m a cop!”

The gun fires. I have heard that sound again and again and again in my nightmares and I freeze.

The human yanks the gun out of my hand and scoots back away from me. “Fucking hell,” he curses, voice high-pitched. He is staring at something in this direction.

“You’re a cop,” I repeat, monotone.

He switches on the safety. Must have switched it off while we were fighting over it. “Yes,” he answers weakly. I notice that he’s young. Mid-twenties, probably. “I’m a cop.”

“Oh.” I say. It occurs to me that I have fucked up. Badly. “I’m sorry.”

I try to stand but the floor is slippery. Asgore comes forward. “Isla, don’t move,” he says. There is something urgent in his voice. He turns to Frisk, who is crying, for some reason. “Frisk, call an ambulance. Quickly.”

Frisk nods and sprints off. The cop stands up, eyes wide, still staring at me.

I put my hands on the floor to push myself up, but the floor is wet. My hands come up bloody. The bullet embedded itself in the floor, but before it did that, it punched through my left knee. Entered the top of my bent knee at the bottom of my thigh and exited just above my tibia. It seems like such a stupid little wound, compared to what I have had before. Such a stupid little wound and it’s bleeding so much.

“It got my popliteal artery,” I say to nobody in particular, or to myself. I don’t know which.

I start to tip over. Asgore grabs me and hauls me away from the blood puddle, laying me on my back. His hands, wreathed in healing magic, are on my knee. I am vaguely aware that things elsewhere are loud, but I can’t identify specific sounds and I’m starting to get tunnel vision.

“Tell the cop I’m sorry,” I say. “Asgore, you should go check on Frisk. They looked upset.”

“Frisk is calling an ambulance,” Asgore replies. His hands are shaking, but the application of healing magic is steady. “You are bleeding out.”

“Okay.” My tongue feels thick in my mouth. I’m cold. “Sans wanted fritters.”

This time Asgore raises his voice. “You are _dying_. It is _not okay_.”

Oxygen deprivation is not particularly conducive to higher cognitive functions. All I register before I pass out is my reflexive disagreement with him.

 

* * *

 

After the disaster and the phone calls and the ambulance, Toriel comes to the Embassy to pick up Frisk so she can take the children to the hospital. She is meeting Sans there. Asgore has to stay and finishing handling the matter at hand.

Hugo is so shaken up Xena notices immediately. She and her mother Tala were in a soundproof suite when the gun went off, but Asgore has to tell them what happened anyway.

After he reassures them that there is nothing they can do at the moment, Xena prompts her mother to describe the situation. Tala is soft-spoken and does not make eye contact frequently. She has huge, dark eyes and there is a purple bruise around one of them. There is a bruise on her left wrist, too, and his capacity for controlling his emotions is already shot and this _infuriates_ him. Why would anyone ever do this to someone whom they claim to love? Why are humans sometimes so damn horrible?

His head feels foggy right up until he gets the phone call from Toriel. He excuses himself for a moment. “Howdy, Tori. Do you have news?”

“Isla just came out of emergency surgery,” Toriel replies. “She needs blood, and her knee is damaged, but she is going to live.”

His legs almost go weak. “Thank goodness.”

“How are things over there?”

“They are under control for now. I will come to the hospital when I am done here.”

“Alright. Do not feel as though you have to hurry. Goodbye, Gorey.”

“Goodbye,” he replies, and after she hangs up, he reflexively adds, “Love you.”

He presses a palm against his head. Drops his arms at his side and takes a moment to draw in a deep breath. Slowly, he exhales. He still has work to do.

He heads back into the suite. “Isla will be fine,” he says. “She just got out of surgery.”

Hugo slumps back in his seat. “Good,” he breathes. “Holy shit. That’s good news.”

Xena stands. “Is she taking visitors? I’d like to talk to her. Maybe I can explain what’s going on, since she clearly didn’t know.”

“I do not know,” Asgore replies. “I would assume so.”

“How are you getting there?” Hugo asks. “I drove you here.”

“The hospital’s a two-minute walk,” Xena replies. She turns to her mother. Her voice softens. “Are you going to be okay while I’m gone?”

Tala nods. “I think so.”

Xena leans down to hug her mother before she leaves. “Tala,” Hugo says. His face is serious. “I’m going to call the station and have someone on-duty come here. Nothing is official yet. Nothing will be official until you say you want it to be official. Is that alright?”

“I suppose so,” Tala answers. Hugo must be familiar to her because she is able to meet his gaze without issue. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem.” He steps in the kitchenette to make the call.

“Is there anything I can do for you right now?” Asgore asks. “I must leave soon, but I will call housekeeping and the kitchen to let them know you are here. Are you hungry? We could order food.”

Tala looks at him for a moment. “I cannot thank you enough for your kindness,” she says. “You are nothing like he said.”

The anger rears its ugly head again, but he makes sure to keep it out of his expression and body language. He has to keep his voice gentle. “I believe you will find little truth in what you have been told about us, but please, make that judgement yourself. You may stay here as long as you need to, and should your husband come by, he will get no farther than the lobby.”

Hugo returns, reclaiming his seat on the couch next to Tala. “They’re on their way,” he says.

Asgore suddenly realizes that he needs to call Riley Sanders. Riley was a shooting victim, he is close to Isla, and he certainly does not need to hear about this through gossip. “I must make another call.” He plucks a laminated pamphlet off the coffee table and hands it to Tala. “Everything you need should be here. I apologize for running out so quickly, but things are a little busy right now.”

In all likelihood, Riley is not going to take this well. He has been unusually reserved since Isla was removed from the Embassy. Asgore should ask him about that, make sure he is doing alright.

He goes to the gardens to calm himself down before he does this. What else needs to be done? Who else needs to be told? Toriel will make sure the rest of their family knows. When Asgore gets to the hospital, he should ask Sans if Isla requires any belongings from home. He can request Papyrus’s assistance in packing her a bag. It is a good thing he visited the memorial already today; he is going to be busy for the rest of the night. There is so much to do.

He pauses for a second, stopping next to a hydrangea bush. School begins again soon. Summer is almost over and the plants are beginning to show it.

It will always seem like there is so much to do. That will probably never change. This spring and summer, he tended carefully to many of the flowers here so he could see them bloom and thrive. He was certainly busy as he did so. It will always be busy, and suddenly, it doesn’t make much sense to continue to put things off.

 

* * *

 

Must be time for pain meds. My knee hurts like a bitch.

I hit the call light. The nurse practically runs in. He tells me I’ve been unconscious for a couple of hours and he’s going to call my doctor right away. I’m due for pain meds, so he doses me.

It’s an opiate. I can tell it’s an opiate. Great.

“Hey.” There is a knock at the open door. I can’t see anything because somebody took my contacts out, but I recognize Spencer’s voice. “Can I come in?”

“Do you have my glasses?” I ask, trying to ignore the way the analgesic is making me feel.

He comes into the room and hands them to me. When I put them on, I can see that he’s in street clothes.

“It’s your day off,” I say. “I’ve got bad timing.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Can you sit up for me?”

I do, with some difficulty. My knee is covered and bound such that I am incapable of bending it. Spencer does the doctor thing with the stethoscope. “Since I had you sign that release form when I started working here, I was able to get into your records,” he says. “You have already received two units of blood. You’ll get a third, and tentatively a fourth if the third isn’t enough to bring your hemoglobin up.”

“My knee,” I say.

He leans back and drapes the stethoscope around his neck. “There are options,” he begins, “but it’s bad. There are four ligaments within the joint space of the knee. The bullet tore completely through two of them and damaged the other two. There is extensive damage to both menisci. Your popliteal artery was severed. A couple of the collateral arteries were busted, but some were okay, which is why you still have a leg. Your patella and tibia took some relatively minor damage and a few tendons of varying leg muscles were torn or partially torn. The surgery you just had fixed your arteries, since that was killing you. You shouldn’t worry about the tendons. Repairing those is going to be easy compared to the damaged cartilage and ligaments.

“One option is to go for broke and get a knee replacement. Get rid of all the faulty equipment and start over. Your second option is a replacement of only your destroyed ligaments and menisci. Your third option is to do as little as possible. They would smooth the jagged edges of your bone and remove most of the damaged cartilage. They could try to fix what’s left, but I honestly doubt they would have very much to work with.”

“How badly would that impair functioning?”

There is a pause. “You’ll be able to limp,” Spencer says at last. “It won’t bend correctly. It might hurt, though I can’t tell you how much or whether it would be constant or intermittent, and I can’t tell you how it would feel for you, since you already have chronic pain. You definitely won’t be as fast as you would be with a new knee.”

“And what do they use to make a new knee? Or new cartilage?”

“Honestly, nothing I expect your body to like. Joint replacements are much better now than they used to be, but most people getting joint replacements are in their sixth or seventh decade of life, don’t have autoimmune conditions, and don’t have immune reactions to their synthetic joints.” He shrugs. “But you never know. You could be perfectly fine.”

“’Perfectly fine’ isn’t in my medical history. Immune reactions to stitches, gauze, and glue are. So what should I do?”

“You should talk things over with your partner, when he gets here. Keep in mind that you can go from a straight repair to a new knee, but once you replace the entire knee, there’s no putting your original joint back in place. Do you want me to stay?”

“Nah.” Sans is leaning against the doorway. “I’ll take it from here, Doc. Thanks.”

I nod at Spencer and he leaves. Sans meanders over to me, gaze flicking to the IV pole and the various fluids draining into me.

“I’ve got someone here who wants to talk for a bit,” he says. “If you’re up for it.”

“Sure,” I say. He walks back over to the doorway and gestures with his head. A human woman walks in. I probably have ten years on her. She is fairly tall, with dark hair styled in a pixie cut. Her skin is a little darker than Frisk’s and the muscles in her arms are visible from across the room. She looks like she could kick my ass.

She plants her butt in the chair next to my bed. “I’m Xena Massoud,” she says. “I’m Wallace Vance’s daughter. If we both hate my asshole father, that’s one thing we have in common.”

“Massoud?” I repeat.

“Changed my last name to my mother’s maiden name when I turned eighteen. I don’t want anything from my father.”

She’s being incredibly upfront about that, which makes me assume she’s been sitting on those feelings for a very long time. “Okay. What are you doing here?”

“Xena was at the Embassy with her mom so they could talk to Asgore and Frisk,” Sans says.

“Yeah.” She glances at him, then looks back at me. “My father has been verbally abusing my mother for years. She stayed through that. He beat her a couple of days ago and I finally talked her into leaving. She has no resources. He controls all the money.”

My fingers find the controls for my bed on the siderails. I put my head up more. “Okay. How can I help?”

Sans crosses his arms. “You’re not doing shit, Isla. This is just to inform you.”

I’d probably protest under normal circumstances, but I’m too high and anemic and exhausted. Vance has a son, too. I think he’s in college, but he doesn’t go here. I wonder if he knows about this or if he shares his sister’s hatred towards their father.

“Anyway,” Xena continues. “I figured the monsters would help and I was right. I called Hugo to escort us over here in case my father tried to chase us. Hugo’s the off-duty cop you body-tackled despite being half his size. He’s my friend and he feels terrible about what happened.”

There’s the connection. “He shouldn’t feel terrible. I messed up, not him. Tell him I’m sorry. How’s your mother doing?”

She regards me for a moment. “They put her up in a suite at the Embassy for now. She’s as okay as she can be, but I know the bastard’s gonna try to get her back and sweep everything under the rug. I’m not letting that happen. I had Hugo contact his on-duty coworkers. I need to head back so I can get Mom ready for them, but I wanted to talk to you first, after I heard what happened.”

After I scared the shit out of her cop friend, she means. She briefly looks at Sans again before coming back to me. “You two are the shit, you know that? You were the first out. My girlfriend is a monster and you made it possible for us. Just… try not to die, okay? We need this. We need you.” She stands. “I hope you feel better and all that crap. See ya at the college, Sans.”

After she goes, I ask, “Is she a student?”

“Nah,” Sans replies. Instead of taking the chair she just vacated, he sits on the bed next to me. “She works in the IT department. I think she does a little tutoring on the side.”

He stares at me and I can’t hold his gaze. “Guess I proved Frisk right, huh? They should have fired me a while ago.”

“Frisk is horrified by what happened,” he says. “All the kids are waitin’ to come see ya. I told them to give me a minute so I could get some answers out of you. So you wanna tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

He wants answers. He let me put this off and now he wants answers. “I’m really tired and stoned,” I try. “Let’s do this later.”

He shoves his hands in his hoodie pocket and speaks calmly. “See, here’s the thing. You’re out of time. I get that sometimes things are really hard to talk about and sometimes internal processing has to happen first. I get that it can help to be patient. But I’m not going to be so patient you have all the time you need to get yourself killed, since that seems to be your goal. You gotta deal with it.”

He almost never demands anything of me, which makes me want to do it, but it’s _this_. My brain repressed this for fifteen years and I didn’t understand why until I got it back. I understand now, and now I have to say something, because for nearly twenty years, I have been trying to let myself die. Trying to rectify the error of my survival because it _was_ an error and the fact that it was an error has left a perpetual itch on my brain that will only be relieved with my death. Because I have this compulsive need to _fix_ everything as a way to make up for the fact that I lived, because I don’t feel like I deserved to live, because I killed and it isn’t just that I killed, it’s the _way_ I killed and the way everyone treated me like a hero afterwards when the two things I did – living and killing – felt so wrong. I lived and that was a mistake so what did I do? I let myself become seriously ill multiple times, I put myself at the center of a political and social movement I knew would be controversial, I set myself on hair-trigger so I would detect any and all hostility, and I made sure to directly handle as much the incoming violence as possible.

And I fell in love. I fell in love with these people, I fell in love with my family, and I love them more than my brain itches. So I guess I’m gonna have an itchy brain. I open my mouth.

“I spent fifteen years wondering what drove me to kill somebody else. Fifteen years wondering what exactly was in my head. What I was thinking. I assumed I must have been thinking about the kids who were injured, or my own injuries, or the bodies I had to step over, or the blood I slipped in. I assumed it was _something_. Then I got those memories back, and I found out nothing was in my head. Nothing. It’s one thing to kill someone, but who the hell kills someone without _thinking_ about it first? What kind of person shoots someone in the head without a single _thought_?”

“You were bleeding out,” he murmurs. “Dying. You couldn’t have expected your head to work correctly.”

“You _know_ that doesn’t matter.”

There is an edge to my voice, but if I start crying now, I might not be able to stop, so I swallow it down. “Yeah. I know.” Sans closes his eyesockets. “Got a question for ya. Seconds before you shot your shooter dead, you stepped in front of Riley Sanders and took the brunt of the first spray that almost definitely would have killed a kid his size. You think about that before you did it?”

I have not examined this before, but I have the answer. “No. I just… did it.”

“Maybe you’re the person who killed somebody without thinking about it, but you’re also the person who saved a younger kid’s life without thinking about it, and almost died yourself in the process. Can ya live with that?”

I stare at him for a moment. I start off giggling, but it quickly dissolves into tears. “I’ll have to,” I manage to say. “Because I am going to live.”


	12. Anxiety: a state of inner turmoil and feelings of dread over anticipated events.

I have a benign transfusion reaction, because of course I do. I had one after I was shot, too. The itchy rash resolves pretty quickly after they take me off the blood, but the labs they pull afterwards come back odd. I’m spiking a fever. Nobody understands why until I tell Sans to look at my catheter bag.

He has been in the bathroom with me while I peed, but he has never watched me pee. He knows what it sounds like hitting the toilet bowl, but not what it looks like, so he’s going to wait for me to ask a better question if I ask him to describe it. Start simple. “What color?”

“Reddish?”

Great. “Can you see through it?”

“I dunno what that means.” He unhooks the bag and lifts it so I can see. “How’s this?”

I press the call button. It looks like kidney infection pee, but I can’t be sure I didn’t have a hemolytic reaction to the transfused blood. I’m going to need more tests.

They take my pee and remove the catheter. More bloodwork and an ultrasound reveal I got a UTI from the catheter and it climbed directly into my damaged kidney. The pain was masked by the pain medication I’m receiving for my knee.

I was seriously considering going for a full knee replacement, but this is the last straw. My body does not want to adapt to anything new right now. I tell them I want my knee to be closed up so I can go home. I don’t care that I won’t have to get another joint put in for fifty years. I don’t care that they can stick a black box on my knee so the joint they make fits perfectly in my leg. I’m tired of dealing with my medical shit for a while and I need a break.

Antibiotics were horrendously overused for a period of decades during the last century. That was one of the main reasons for the pandemic of the 2070’s. As a result, antibiotic use is tightly regulated, but culturing microorganisms has gotten much better. My attending is able to tell me exactly what I have and exactly what combination of medications will kill it. I get the “it’s crucial you complete the _entire_ course of antibiotics” lecture even though I know that from being sick so often.

The morning I’m scheduled to have surgery, Sans brings in my laptop and pulls up pictures of canes. I was told I should use one post-op. I am instinctually resistant to this, but the first cane Sans shows me has a banana for a handle and the second is the flame cane Natalie got Spencer for his birthday a few years ago. I start looking.

The one good thing about having my tenth surgery is that this time, everything is scheduled and Chara can watch when the surgeon comes to talk to me, when I sign the forms, when the anesthetist speaks with me, and they can follow me right up until I’m wheeled through the doors of the OR. Even though I fucked up and my health is, once again, fucked up, I can use it to help them prepare.

 

* * *

 

Asriel and Frisk are applying to the college early decision, so they begin filling out the online applications as soon as they open up. Toriel checks over them to make sure the information is accurate and there are no spelling or grammar errors.

“Has either of you decided where you are going to live?” she asks them. “Sans told me the college has plans to build a new dormitory on campus. It is supposed to be finished by fall semester of next year.”

“Mom, we’re not living in the dorms,” Asriel says. “We’ll stay here.”

She looks up from Frisk’s essay. “Living here will always be an option for you, but I do not want you to feel as though you must stay. We will be alright if you choose to move out. The college is only a few minutes’ drive away.”

Frisk nods. “We know you and Dad would be okay. We don’t want to leave Chara. It took some time for all of us to be able to be here as we are. We are going to stay together.”

“Of course,” she replies. She reaches out and Frisk, despite being seventeen, lets her run her hand over their head. “Have you told them? I am sure they would be glad to hear it.”

Frisk and Asriel exchange a slightly confused glance, as if they cannot figure out why she asked them that. “Yeah, we told them,” Asriel answers. “We tell each other everything, Mom.”

As if that were utterly obvious. Perhaps it is. Is she missing something with her children? Has she not been paying enough attention to them? Has something been on her mind lately?

No, of course not. Her children are growing up. They are changing. They are growing into compassionate young adults and learning how to use the pain of their pasts for the better. They are going to continue to change the world.

With this in mind, she seeks out Chara. They have, once again, elected to continue their schooling throughout most of the summer. It is something they must discuss.

“My child, I am nearly at my limit with lesson plans for you,” she tells them one evening. “My skill is in teaching at a level that you passed quite a long time ago. I think it may be a good idea to consider getting you tutors for the subjects that are beginning to edge outside of my expertise.”

Chara is expressionless but for their slightly widened eyes. “Tutors as in… strangers. People we don’t know. Coming here.”

Toriel places her hand on the table, palm-down. “Yes. They would sit right here and work with you. Your father, one of your siblings, or I would be in the room at all times.”

Their face twitches and they look away. They are uncomfortable. Toriel says nothing and watches them think about it. Finally they decide to say what they want to say. “Can we… in the house, can you not refer to Frisk, Asriel, and me as siblings? I know we’re legally adoptive siblings, but we are honestly more like friends. And I know we have to present as siblings in public, but…”

When they trail off, Toriel replies, “Yes, Chara. I will inform Asgore. I am sorry if that has made you uncomfortable in the past. This is the first I am hearing of it.”

“No, it’s fine. It was… we have all been trying to figure out how we felt about it and we just talked about it recently. We just don’t really feel like siblings. I am sorry if that’s weird, but… we don’t.”

“Please do not apologize, my child.” Something about this gives her an inkling of… something. She cannot put her finger on it. It was like something barely there, a thought that is immediately forgotten and leaves only a niggling feeling in its wake. “In fact,” she adds, “please correct Asgore or me if we make this mistake again in the future, and keep correcting us until we get it right. It may be difficult for us to discard such an automatic association because we see all of you as our children.”

“And we see you as our parents,” Chara says quickly. “Really, we all do. Just – between the three of us, we have always felt more like friends than siblings.”

She smiles at them. “Okay. And know that this tutor idea is only a suggestion. I would not want your education to suffer because you are learning at a level at which my teaching is weaker.”

“Oh.” They look at the table briefly, then back up at her. “Well, I figured… when I reach college-level, I will get my GED and go to the college. When do you think I will be able to do that?”

“If you continue at the rate you are now, perhaps three or four years.” She pauses. “How do you think you would feel at the college? You would be going to classes and sitting for exams with other students, talking to professors… the campus gets quite crowded when fall and spring semesters are in session.”

“I… don’t know,” Chara admits. “There are more humans at the college than there are at your school.”

“I could get you to a point at which you could obtain your GED, but if you wish to attend the college, perhaps we could work a little more on your social anxiety. You have worked so hard and made so much progress already, my child, and all of us are so proud of you. Perhaps, by the time you are prepared to attend college, it will be at a point at which you can tolerate such an environment.”

Their face turns red and they look away. That always happens when somebody sincerely praises them. They are still not used to it.

Toriel waits a moment, and when they do not say anything, she asks, “Have you thought about what your major might be? You do not have to go into politics like Frisk and Asriel. You should do something you feel good about doing.”

“Don’t think I have the right demeanor for politics,” Chara murmurs. Hesitantly, they add, “I’ve been watching all those surgery videos – medicine is kind of cool, but I don’t know if I could spend all day interacting with different people. I think I like science. Facts are important. Facts and reality. Science provides the best descriptors we have of facts and reality.”

“You may be better suited to research. When Sans does research at the college, he only interacts with a handful of people for each project. He may be able to get you on a project once you are there and you know what you might like to try.”

The corners of their mouth twitch upward for the barest moment. “I mean, it is a little premature,” they say. “It’s years off. But… I would probably like that.”

Toriel smiles warmly at them, and they finally smile back. They still become uncomfortable when asking things of other people, even people they love, but it is good to see that they are recovering more quickly from their discomfort. “You are correct,” she says. “Shall we continue where we left off yesterday?”

“Sure, Mom. Thanks.”

 

* * *

 

During late August, Solomon Calder’s wife is killed in a car crash. The day after it happens, Asgore calls him to offer condolences and to see if he would like some time off from their constant meetings. It has been meeting after meeting since Tala Massoud went public with her divorce request and the reason for it.

Solomon thanks him and says no. Most of the time, Asgore actually likes working with him. He is easily the calmest human politician with whom Asgore has spoken. To Asgore’s knowledge, he has never lost his cool. He seems to consistently apply utilitarianism to everything in his work and he always has logical reasons for his views. Asgore does not believe he is racist even though he frequently votes against expanding the already-inferior rights of monsters. The biggest issue Asgore has with him is that he believes re-segregating is presently the best course of action. If Solomon had his way, he would integrate monsters and humans over decades and would have a team to control every aspect of integration to ensure its success.

That is not a fair thing to ask of monsters who waited their whole lives to come to the surface. Asgore’s people have made this clear. Almost all of them would rather risk interaction with racists than live segregated for any extended amount of time. Most of them have become close with at least one human, in one way or another.

When he gets home that day, he finds Toriel reading by the fireplace. “Howdy, Tori,” he says. “Are the children upstairs?”

“Greetings,” she replies. “The children are next door. Asriel and Chara both wanted to speak to Isla today. I am not expecting them back until later, so we are going to have a late dinner tonight.”

“Alright,” he says, and if he is being honest with himself, the only reason he has not said anything thus far is because there was no opportunity. It was summer and their children are around more frequently during the summer than they are when school is in session. He and Toriel have not had any prolonged moments alone.

This is his chance. He is terrified, but there is no point in his future at which he will not be terrified doing this. “Tori, can we talk for a moment?” he asks. “It will not take long.”

She looks slightly confused, but she slides a bookmark into place and closes her book. “Certainly. Did something happen at the Embassy?”

Well, yes, but it is not what Asgore wishes to focus on at the moment, so he fibs. “No. I just – I wanted to say—” he cuts himself off and pauses deliberately. Tries again. “We have been very busy lately. With the children. With our people. But it will always be like that. We will always be busy and we will always have an excuse not to talk about this, but I want to talk about it anyway, because at the very least it is worth discussing.”

“Gorey?” Toriel says questioningly. She does not look so confused anymore.

Her use of his nickname gives him the strength to say it. He sits down on the edge of the sectional. “I want us to try again, Tori. I never stopped loving you. I believe we have a shot at something new and wonderful and I think we should give it a chance.”

She can only stare speechlessly at him for a few moments. Finally, she says, “Gorey—”

But he is not finished. “We have talked about the obstacles we would face. We have discussed our fears. I still have those fears even as I am saying this. I especially worry about how we might impact the children, even though they told us not to make this about them. They have thought about it, Tori. We will not be bringing down anything upon them that they do not expect.

“We have spoken about our grief over Chara and Asriel and we have them back now. We have not talked much about the other fallen humans. I wanted to tell you that I am ready to face it. All of it. I understand that we have unpleasantness we must get through if we are going to make this work. I understand that we may not be able to make it work at all after we face it. I have not been able to so much as look at it for a long time, but I am ready now.”

Now that he has said his part, he waits. Typically he would be anxiously awaiting her response, ready to hang onto her every word – but right now, that is not the case. He does not know why. He is simply relieved that he was able to articulate himself.

Toriel looks down at the book on her lap. A crease appears between her eyebrows. “Oh, Gorey,” she says sadly. “I… do not think I am ready yet. I… I just…”

Her expression becomes pinched and it occurs to him that she actually might cry, which is odd because he is always the one who cries first. Concerned, he rises, intending to put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her, realizes she may not want him touching her at the moment, and ends up standing there awkwardly.

But she stands too, and when she does, she holds out her arms and he is quick to embrace her. She sniffles a little into his shoulder, but she isn’t shaking or sobbing. He pats her upper back and she squeezes him.

“I need a little more time, Gorey,” she whispers. “Please wait for me.”

 

* * *

 

I spend the rest of the summer recovering from my surgery, doing physical therapy, and learning how to use a cane. Sans drops what I assume to be a hefty sum to get a customized cane for me, and of course it’s a giant punchline. The shaft is two long bones, one on top of the other, and the handle is a tiny mold of a human skull.

Sans thinks it’s hilarious. It actually is pretty funny, especially if people notice it when I’m with him, but the part I appreciate most is that it has a hidden compartment. If I twist the handle, I can pull out a bone shiv and possibly stab people who require stabbing.

Chara sometimes helps me with my PT homework. Occasionally I notice them staring at me while I limp, contemplating. I can only hope that seeing my failing health is motivating them to go through with their surgery.

My knee ends up very stiff, but after I recover from the surgery, I don’t have any more pain than I did prior to my injury. I have to wear a brace. I can’t really run anymore. Limping quickly is about the best I’ve got, and for now it will have to be enough.

I spend more and more time with Chara after school starts and August moves into September. I decide I’m not working the week they’re having surgery just in case they have a traumatic response afterwards. They have everything set up: they have a date, they have signed all the paperwork to have a camera in the OR, and they have their pre-op instructions. They’re still freaked out by the idea, but I doubt they will ever be indifferent to it. The best we can hope for is to get them through it and to take care of them afterwards.

The night before, I set my alarm so I can accompany Chara and their family to the hospital. It never goes off. Instead, my phone rings at four in the morning. Sans groans as I paw at my nightstand until I grab it. “Hello?”

“Hey, Isla.” It’s my sister. “It would be really cool if you called the parents and came to the hospital.”

I shoot up in the bed. “Are you in labor?”

“Yeah. I thought this was gonna be another false alarm, so I went to bed without really thinking about it, but I just got up to pee and my water broke on the way there. It was _everywhere_. I had to squish back into the bedroom to wake Zach up. He cleaned it up while I took a bath before we came in.”

“How dilated are you?”

“Zach guessed about six centimeters, but obviously he’s never had to guess how dilated a cervix is before.”

I throw the covers off myself. Sans reaches over and turns the light on. He yawns and stretches, not that he has any muscles to stretch. “Want me to get Paps up?”

“I’ll try to get there as soon as I can,” I say into the phone. “Do you want me to bring anybody?”

“I want Undyne and Papyrus in the room. They should both be on board. We talked about it a while back. You can bring whoever else wants – _holy FUCK_ another contraction just started I am giving you to Zach.”

Even after she hands him her phone, I can hear Shannon swearing up a blue streak in the background. “Yes, wake Papyrus up,” I tell Sans, and into the phone I ask, “Do you need us to bring anything for you?”

“I don’t think so,” Zach replies. “We packed a hospital bag. I would really like Undyne to get here so Shannon can break her hand instead of mine.”

“Okay, I’ll give her a call. Let me know if anything changes. Text me the room number when you get one.”

I put my phone on speaker, toss it on the bed, and take off my giant T-shirt. Undyne picks up on the fourth ring, just as I’m pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “Whaaaaat?” she whines. “If this isn’t important, I’m gonna kick your ass, Isla.”

“Shannon’s in labor. She’s at the hospital.”

“Wait – she’s gonna have the baby?”

“Yes. She’s been in labor since last night. She said you already agreed to be there.”

“I did! Alphys, WAKE UP! Shannon’s having the baby!”

Poor Alphys. “Can you meet us over here? We can drive to the hospital together.”

“HELL YEAH!! THIS IS GONNA BE THE BEST BIRTH EVER!!”

I think this is already most certainly _not_ the best birth ever because of the crappy timing, but I don’t say that. I know Asgore usually wakes up around seven. I was planning on going in with Chara and their family, but I will have to tell them I am meeting them there instead. I will take time to make sure Chara is alright before they are taken back to surgery. Labor lasts hours. Missing some of it is perfectly acceptable.

As soon as I’m done getting dressed, the bedroom door slams open. “I’M GOING TO BE AN UNCLE!!! I’LL BE THE BEST UNCLE EVER!!!” Papyrus shrieks joyfully. He takes off down the hallway. I hear him tromp halfway down the stairs, pause, and run back up to my now-open doorway. “Hurry up!! I want to meet my new nibling!!”

 

* * *

 

They check into the hospital around eight. Chara’s surgery is scheduled for nine.

Currently they are in the waiting room. Frisk and Chara are sitting in a single chair. The chairs are big enough that Asgore sat down without worrying about putting his weight on it, but the humans are still squished together.

Chara does not sit up and detangle themself from Frisk until Isla shows up. “How are things going?” asks Toriel.

“Pretty well,” Isla replies. “No complications. Shannon’s cursed more in the last four hours than she has in the last four years, but that’s fine.”

Chara stands up and walks to Isla and falls against her. She embraces them. They are taller than her now, just barely. “You don’t like that your plans were thrown off, do you?” she asks, voice soft. “It’s hard to prepare for one thing and then get something else.”

They pull back and shake their head, eyes wide. “It’s not like your sister could control it.”

“She can’t, but it still must be stressful for you. I’m glad you decided to come in anyway. When you are able to go off the pain medication, we will sit down and watch your surgery video together, okay?”

This morning, Asgore was not sure Chara would be able to come in. Even with months of education and therapy, they were anxious about today. He thought Isla’s absence might have been the last straw for them, but here they are.

“Okay,” Chara says. “Will you be here when I wake up?”

“That seems likely. Shannon was almost ready to start pushing when I left. She will probably have the baby while you are on the table.”

“You should go back, then.”

“Yeah. I told Papyrus that if Shannon starts to give birth without me there, he has to record it. She wasn’t happy with that idea. Said if she was going to show her genitals on camera, she wanted to look sexy, not pregnant and sweaty and about to poop herself.”

Toriel slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle her amused snort, but is unsuccessful, judging by the smirk Frisk sends her. Asgore wonders why he is even surprised anymore. Isla and Shannon are two of the bluntest, most unfiltered humans he has ever met.

“Humans poop when they have babies?” Asriel asks, confused. “But, wait, isn’t your sister eating monster food?”

“Not exclusively.” Her phone vibrates. “Undyne says she’s ten centimeters dilated. Time to start pushing.” Then, to Chara, “Are you going to be okay?”

“I am – freaking out a little,” they admit. “But I think I can do it. Go.”

“You’re so brave,” Isla says. “Good luck.” She glances at Toriel and Asgore. “Call me if you need anything.”

Asgore nods. “Certainly.”

Kalene arrives with her father not even two minutes after Isla leaves. Asgore feels himself frowning. It has been a while since he has seen Ezra. Typically Toriel is the one who interacts with him when he brings Kalene around to see their children. Ezra seems to have aged quite a bit since the last time Asgore saw him. Silver is shot through his hair and he looks tired.

“Oh, Gorey, look,” Toriel murmurs to him, which directs his attention to how quickly Asriel moves to greet his friend.

As his son hugs Kalene, Asgore says, “Gosh, he’s getting to be so tall,” because Asriel is taller than Ezra now. His horns are even beginning to curl back.

He sees Toriel smiling knowingly in his peripheral vision, but she only laughs and says, “Yes, he is.”

Asriel leads Kalene over to Frisk and Chara. As far as Asgore knows, Kalene is not very close with Chara yet, but she is getting there. Chara simply takes a very long time to warm up to other humans and requires a powerful motivator to even begin an interaction with another human. It helps that Kalene is already friends with Frisk and Asriel. She must be particularly close with Asriel, because Asriel talks about her frequently enough.

“Chara Dreemurr?” a nurse calls.

Asgore exchanges a glance with Toriel. They both rise. Chara is locked in Asriel’s embrace now, but when they hear their name, they pull away. “It’ll be okay,” Asriel says reassuringly.

“Yeah,” Kalene adds. “The nurses here are really nice.”

Chara stares at the floor until Frisk rises and pulls them into a hug. “Asriel,” Toriel says, catching their son’s attention. “We will wait in recovery for Chara. You may wait in the maternity ward if you wish. We will text you when Chara gets out of surgery.” To Ezra, she says, “Isla’s sister Shannon is up there. She is in labor.”

Ezra nods and Kalene grins brightly, pulling on Asriel’s arm and wasting no time expressing her fondness for babies. Frisk whispers something to Chara, and after that, Chara steps away from them and raises their head. They inhale deeply, exhale. They turn to Toriel and Asgore, a stubborn, determined look on their face.

“I am ready,” they say. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

My sister screeches and curses Zach out incessantly. Undyne yells encouragement at her nearly the entire time, but more often than not, Shannon’s voice eclipses hers. Just before eleven, my sister gives birth to a healthy infant. Something about this leaves me utterly amazed, but the feeling of awe is promptly ruined by the afterbirth and a simple survey of what has happened. Between all the human tissue, fluid, blood, and poop, I’m reminded that this is gross and I never want to do it.

Immediately afterward, I step out of the room to check my phone. Nothing from Asgore and Toriel yet. We wait while the doctor and nurses check the baby and then we wait some more to give Shannon and Zach some alone time with their kid.

Frisk glances at their phone and says, “I’m gonna go wait with Mom and Dad. Can I come back up later?”

The question is directed at me. “Probably,” I reply. “I’ll let you know if there’s a reason you can’t.”

Frisk heads back down to surgery. “I’ve never held a human baby before,” Asriel says aloud after a moment. “Will I be allowed to?”

I nod and say again, “Probably. It seemed like the baby was healthy when we left.”

Kalene turns to Asriel. “You’ve never held a human baby? When we get in there, I’ll show you how!”

“Yes!!!” Papyrus exclaims. “I can show you as well, Prince Asriel!! Humans love letting me hold their babies!!”

This is absolutely true. I’m not sure how Papyrus avoids waking the babies he holds with his voice, but he always manages. Human children tend to love him, too. Actually, all children tend to love him, human and monster.

My parents exchange a glance with one another. After this silent communication, they stand. “We’re going to get something to eat,” my dad says. “Any requests?”

“They’ll probably let us back in soon,” I point out.

“Yes, and they will be there when we’re done eating,” my mother replies. She shoots an amused glance at Asriel and Kalene, who look nervous and excited respectively. “We’ll be back soon.”

Undyne rises to her feet. “I’ll come with you, I’m starving.” From all the yelling and pacing, I’ll bet.

Still nothing from Asgore or Toriel by the time they let us back in. Zach hands Papyrus the newborn first, who looks absolutely delighted.

I sit in the chair next to my sister’s bed. She looks better than she did when I saw her last – especially on the cleanliness front – but this might be the first time _ever_ she has looked more tired than I do. “Did you decide on a name?”

“Yeah,” she replies. “Saoirse.”

“What about last name?”

“We hyphenated. I understand the excitement, but I want to take a nap.”

“We’ll do our best to be quiet.” I look up in time to see Kalene arranging my niece in Asriel’s arms. She shows him where to put his hands.

“Oh, wow,” he utters. Without being told, he begins to rock her gently. “Are all human babies this small?”

I stand and walk over to him. “Actually, that’s about average. You’re just getting to be really tall.”

He has at least a foot on me now. It’s weird and I don’t often think about how weird it is because he still feels like my little kid, even though he’s not little anymore. He could hold Saoirse in his hands alone, without requiring leverage from his forearms or body.

Kalene grins at him. “You’re good at this! She went right to sleep.”

This makes Asriel go scarlet. My phone vibrates, so I check it. “Chara’s out of surgery,” I inform everyone. “I need to head down.”

“I’ll let Shannon know when she wakes up,” Zach says from the chair I vacated earlier.

I nod at him and look at Asriel, who continues to sway even as he pays attention to me. “It’s likely they will be out of it for a little while,” I tell him. “You can stay here if you like. It might be better if they aren’t promptly mobbed by everyone immediately after they wake up.”

He nods, thumb stroking along my niece’s head. “Okay. I’ll wait a little while.”

When I get to recovery, I am surprised to find Chara already awake. Usually people require some time for the anesthesia to wear off after a procedure. Sans is here now, too, but Toriel is nowhere in sight.

“The surgeon told us the surgery went well,” Asgore informs me. “Tori is seeing about getting a copy of the report and the recording now.”

“Isla,” Chara calls from the bed. They are grinning and they look kind of dopey. “I did it.”

“They’re acting like you do when you get scoped,” Sans points out gleefully.

“The doctor said they will be admitted for a few days to make sure everything is fine,” Asgore says.

“They may feed them human food and wait until they poop to make sure everything is hooked up correctly,” I reply. Frisk is on one side of Chara’s bed and Sans is on the other. I go to the side Sans is on and he bumps my hip with his shoulder. “Chara, how do you feel?” I ask.

“I did it,” they repeat, almost sing-song. Frisk leans on their bed and takes Chara’s hand while Chara giggles at them.

“Isla,” Sans murmurs, sliding out of the chair and moving behind me. “Here, sit down.”

When I sit, he takes my cane and leans it in the corner of the room. “Thank you,” I tell him. Chara is drifting off again. “They’re doing well now, but they may become anxious later,” I say, mostly to Asgore. “It’s not an uncommon reaction to anesthesia, especially for people with a lot of preexisting trauma. I’ll stay until they’re lucid.”

“How is your sister doing?” Frisk asks, voice soft because Chara is snoozing right next to them.

Oh, that’s right. Nobody here knows yet. “Shannon gave birth around eleven,” I say. “There were no complications. She and the baby are perfectly fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saoirse is a very Irish name and is pronounced Sear-sha.


	13. Nostalgia: a sentimentality for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.

They take turns staying with Chara so they always have someone with them. Shannon is discharged a day before Chara, but both of them – and baby Saoirse – leave the hospital without complications.

Chara tolerates their stay well, except for the removal of their urinary catheter. This requires a vacating of their room but for Isla, Frisk, and the nurse. Isla reports that, while they were quite anxious, they were able to get through it without suffering a panic attack.

Toriel busies herself caring for Chara for a few days. They honestly do not need much help. Their first day home is mostly spent sleeping and the next they wean themself off their pain medication and find they do not have much pain at all. Isla tells them they will be somewhat sore for up to two weeks post-op, but that it is unlikely to increase much in severity. Toriel decides to return to school once Chara promises to call somebody if they have a problem.

She tries to get back into her routine. Isla turns thirty-two at the end of the month. Toriel usually bakes a cake for birthdays, but Asriel desperately wants to do it for Isla this year, so she mostly supervises while he does the work. He says he wants to do Chara’s, too, next month, but he also wants to do more food preparation in general. Toriel is a little… frazzled, she supposes, at the fact that he and Frisk will be graduating high school this year and is more than happy to teach him this if it means she gets to spend more time with him.

At the beginning of October, Asgore asks her to come into the Embassy after school. She assumes it is because an important human will be visiting and it will be better for both the king and queen to greet them, but when she asks to whom they are speaking, he replies that he simply wants to show her something.

So she goes in, confused and a little wary because of that conversation they had a couple months ago. She… nothing has changed on her end. Could he want to talk about it again? What will her response be? What is it supposed to be?

They walk through the Embassy, past the glistening waterfall tree in the center, past monsters and humans who greet them. Frisk, who came with Toriel, breaks off from them to go talk with the PR department.

Toriel follows Asgore out the back. Most of the flowers in the gardens are dead or dying. The trees are in the midst of changing, green to reds and oranges and golds and browns. The days are shortening, the temperature is dropping, and it is just a matter of weeks before they get their first snow.

“Asgore, where are we going?” Toriel asks.

He steps onto a path through the gardens. “One of the greenhouses,” he answers. “I have… a personal project I’ve been working on.”

What could that possibly be? She half-expects him to enter one of the larger greenhouses, but he walks past those to a smaller one right on the edge of the Embassy’s property. It is round, not rectangular, and it is abutting the trees that surround the hospital’s outpatient suite on the adjacent property. She is surprised when she cannot see through the walls.

Asgore unlocks the door. Why would he need to keep it locked? What on Earth could he be hiding in here?

He walks inside, and so does she. She anticipates asking him what could warrant a small locked greenhouse, but then she steps inside and she understands.

The greenhouse is hexagonal and he could not see through the walls because there are trellises backed up against them and they are all covered in flowers. In the center there is a fountain with three tiers spilling crystal-clear water into the pool below. Above it the sloped glass ceiling comes to a point, where a complex-looking array of mirrors hangs, preferentially directing light on certain beds of flowers.

And the _flowers_. Toriel never knew as much as Asgore about plants, but she does know that there is no way all of these flowers should be in bloom at this time of year. The circular path around the fountain gives off six paths to the vertices of the hexagonal walls, effectively cutting the greenhouse into six equal, pie-shaped sections. Some of the beds are on the floor and some are raised to knee- or hip-height, throwing nearby beds into shadow. The section to her right is composed entirely of yellow flowers, and she identifies daffodils and daisies and goldenrods before her awed attention shifts to the light blue flowers on her left. She brushes her fingers along the bloom of a periwinkle and a cluster of monkshoods before she once more raises her head, spots a path that follows the edge of the greenhouse, and moves clockwise.

She comes to the section of orange flowers next, and she sees marigolds and tiger lilies and flame-colored snapdragons and others she cannot even begin to name. After orange comes blue, and she spots what she thinks is a poppy before pausing to touch a cluster of small blue flowers that tapers to a white tip.

“What are these?” she asks absently.

“Those are bluebonnets,” Asgore answers, a little nervously. “They grow quite well in the southwestern part of this country. I had to read about them before I could care for them properly.”

She comes to the purple section, where a gigantic lilac vine climbs the trellis on the wall. Lavender in the beds throws off a scent that reminds Toriel of pine trees, but it is warmer and more floral. There are crocuses, too, which should definitely not be blooming at this time of year. She always sees those in late winter, sometimes while there is still snow on the ground.

“How did you do this?” she asks, taking in the variety and the fact that each flower is simultaneously in full bloom. There are no buds, no withered blossoms.

He chuckles for a moment. “It certainly wasn’t easy. I had a lot of failures. I had to do a lot of research. I had to figure out ways to direct light to the plants that like it and keep the others in the shade.”

He glances at the rigged-up mirrors in the center of the sloped ceiling and the varying height of the flower beds. “I had to put a lot of magic into them, too,” he continues. “Not a lot at once, but… a little every day. I think it has been worth it.”

Toriel cannot name a single green flower off the top of her head, but she sees he has various orchids and green daylilies here. She pauses next to a bed of long, tapered clusters that have small green blooms stacked on top of one another.

“Those are bells of Ireland,” Asgore says before she can ask. “Those are not native to this continent. I had to specially order them, and a few others.”

She has finally come back to the yellow flowers. She looks, gaze sharp, for buttercups as she turns and walks towards the fountain in the center, but she does not see any. There is a single metal bench next to the fountain, and around it are small rosebushes, bunches of tulips, and three pots holding chrysanthemums. All of these flowers are bright red.

She stares at them for a long time before she speaks. “This is for them, isn’t it?”

He is behind her now. “Yes.”

The silence is broken only by the trickle of the fountain. “How long did it take you to do this?” she asks.

There is a pause. “I had the idea about four years ago. I managed to get my hands on some of the flowers I wanted to use and began to grow them. I experimented with my magic to see if I could keep them in bloom or alter their light requirements. As I said, I had a lot of failures, so it took me a long time.”

She remembers them, but she also remembers trying _not_ to remember them. It had been… difficult to look at any of them fully, after Chara and Asriel. To open her heart after it had been shattered. For a while, she thought that going through the motions would bring it all back, those feelings of loving a child, of being a mother, but whenever she felt so much as a wisp of what she wanted it always brought grief and anger and hopelessness hard on its heels. Numbness was easier.

And then Frisk came, Frisk and their red soul, like Chara’s, and she could not help but to look at them fully, to try a little harder, to leave behind the emptiness and let a little of it back in, even though she had to take the heartache with the love and the joy. She bonded with them and was so desperate to keep them from leaving that she tried to fight them. And after they left, she sat on it all day, tried to let the numbness do its job, tried to pretend everything was just fine. She had spent a hundred years pretending everything was just fine, but Frisk leaving was the last straw. She could no longer pretend. She followed them to Asgore, and then she followed them to the surface.

Apparently the silence bothers Asgore, because he comes up next to her and says, “You are the only one who has seen this. I have not shown it to anybody else. I… like to come in here sometimes. It helps to have a place to think about everything that has happened. Everything I have done. It… makes it easier to be present when I return to my work and our people. So I can better focus on what we still must do.”

“This is beautiful, Gorey,” she says after a moment. Her voice accidentally comes out soft. “Thank you for showing this to me.” She pauses, then adds, “Do you think… would it be possible for me to have some time here alone? Just for a little while.”

“Of course,” he replies. “You may come here whenever you wish, Tori, for however long you like. I would be happy to share this with you.”

This time, it is easy to smile at him. “Thank you,” she says, and finds that she means it from the bottom of her soul.

 

* * *

 

Isla has been teaching Chara how to fight for some time. Asgore knows Chara prefers learning from her because Isla, like Chara, is a small person, and nearly everyone she might have to physically fend off is bigger than her. Chara is anticipating that will probably be the case for them, too, so it makes sense that they learn how to take down bigger people from someone of a similar size to them.

Unfortunately, Isla’s injury has made it impossible for her to teach Chara how to kick and properly utilize their lower limbs. When it is time for them to learn this, Undyne volunteers to teach them. Asgore accompanies them when they walk across the street because Alphys texted him this morning and Asgore wants to speak to her in person and, honestly, he would like to avoid the Embassy today. Human journalists and reporters have been popping up in the lobby every couple of days since Tala went public with her divorce proceedings. He could use a break from reminding them that it is a private matter about which he has no business commenting.

Undyne grins when she opens the door. “Heya, punk! Ready to sweat!?”

“Only if I have to,” Chara replies, straight-faced. “I think I need to work on form.”

“Form’s important.” Undyne turns around and leads them into the house. “We’ll see what you got. Asgore, Alphys is at the table.”

She hooks a right and walks past the television to the basement stairs. Chara follows her. Alphys waves at Asgore as he walks by the couch and joins her at the table.

“Howdy,” he says. “I got your text. You have some promising results?”

Alphys nods. “I’ve compared m-measurements from the amalgamates to those of monsters and humans. N-n-now that we have thousands of individuals in our database, we can have a more accurate idea of mean and mode and such. I’ve b-been looking at determination in particular, and the determination of any individual amalgamate measures higher than natural m-monster determination, but much lower than that of humans.”

Asgore never really understood what determination was, exactly. Humans have more of it and they are able to have much more of it than monsters due to their physical form. It has to do with the will to live, but it’s not quite the same as that.

“So what exactly does that mean?” he asks.

“W-well… I’ve been taking measurements on the amalgamates for years now. And their numbers are changing in the same way both human and monster numbers change in response to aging. So it actually l-looks like they’re aging. And if they’re aging, it seems reasonable to assume that it’s likely they’ll be able to die.”

He grins, and instantly understands that it is probably odd to grin at this, but he knows. He knows because he did not – _could_ not – age for centuries. It was horrible and lonely and something he would not wish upon anyone. “That is wonderful news! Have you told them yet?”

She flushes. “N-n-no!! It’s!! Actually really early to come to conclusions like that so no! I m-m-mean, I’ll tell them what I found about their measurements and how they compare to everyone else’s but I wanted to tell you first and I’m really not comfortable telling them I think they’ll be able to die until one actually does die and it’s way too early for that to happen!”

Golly, he may have jumped the gun on that one. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says. “You are the scientist and I will go along with what you think is best, of course. If you think explaining about their measurements and nothing else is the best approach, we will do that. I can be there with you when you do it, I would be happy to help in any way, but this is up to you.”

She blinks rapidly, but finally nods. “Y-yes, I think… it would be for the best if we kept the apparent inevitability of death quiet for now… I mean, imagine if I t-t-told them they could die and then they couldn’t?? That would be awful.”

Oh, of course. He did not consider that. He is about to agree, but Alphys’s expression abruptly shifts to something much more serious and that makes him stop.

“The basement door is closed, right?” she asks quietly.

Asgore turns around in his seat. He’s at the wrong angle for this because the basement stairs are located behind the wall on which the television is mounted and the door is parallel to his line of sight, but it isn’t ajar and he’s pretty sure he heard Chara shut it on their way down. “I believe so.”

“There was one other thing that came up when I was pulling data,” Alphys says. “Monsters have very little determination within their souls. A-and… we’ve seen what happens when too much extraneous determination is added. But out of all the natural monster determination datapoints… there were two monsters whose determination nearly equaled the amalgamates’ average current determination. They were clear outliers.

“At first… I thought it was a mistake. Sans and I recalibrated the machine, made sure everything was in working order, r-ran some checks, and I had them both come back in. And the result was the same. One, obviously, is Asriel, but h-his determination isn’t natural, it’s… because of what I did. The other…”

Asgore knows enough to guess. He doesn’t know all the details. Chara and Frisk have a hard time talking about it. Sans does, too. “Is it Undyne?” he asks. After all, Chara claimed Undyne was the only one to survive a blow from them.

Alphys nods. “I haven’t told her. I don’t know what it means. I th-think it might be why… you know, when, um, during the timelines Chara and Frisk were… well…”

“When they were killing,” he supplies, and it does hurt him to say it, it will always hurt him to think about it, but he has to acknowledge it. It was something that seriously traumatized all three of his children. Refusing to think about it will not make it go away.

“Y-yeah, during those t-t-timelines. Undyne was the only one able to take a hit with killing intent. Sh-she began to die, she was almost _completely_ dusted, and she came back. And when… when she died… for good, in those timelines, she d-didn’t dust again. She melted.”

Asgore pauses. “Well, she knows that part. It seems like she could come to the conclusion that she has a lot of natural determination on her own.”

“I d-don’t think she’s thought about it in-depth. She probably won’t.”

She is probably right. Undyne is very much the sort of person who sticks to living in the present. She does not do much dwelling on the past.

“That’s probably true,” he allows. “But learn from Sans’s mistakes. He found Isla’s human kill on her soul and she was not happy with him for trying to hide it from her.”

“I know!” Alphys says quickly. “I… I _want_ to tell her, I do, I just w-want to have _more_ to tell her first. I want to have an explanation ready, or figure out what it means, but… I’m nowhere close to either of those things. I should probably j-just tell her what I do know, even though I-I’m going to hate that I don’t have all the answers.”

“If you would like me have a conversation with her about how a high level of determination does not mean she should take unnecessary risks, I will gladly do that.”

“That… might need t-to happen, yeah. Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Sans and I spend a week at my parents’ in Chippewa Falls. Every day, I go over to Andy’s. I am in therapy for hours, trying to figure out where to put my memories of my shooting so they stop growing claws and teeth. Sans grades physics homework on his computer, answers email questions from students, and plays with Andy’s dog and his kids, too, after they get home from school. Andy’s husband Gabriel teaches sailing classes on Lake Wissota, so we don’t see much of him.

I either need to be okay with this or I need to be okay with not being okay with this. When I killed my shooter, I was not letting my soul’s primary trait help me. I have always been bothered whenever I behave impulsively. Whenever I need to make a decision quickly, most of the time, I’m not actually making a decision quickly because I have already carefully considered every hypothetical, every possibility. Especially after the shooting. I am constantly analyzing what I am going to do if someone comes at me or somebody near me with a knife or a gun or their fists. I am constantly choosing how I am going to respond to hostility, to a snide enquiry, to something I previously considered unlikely to happen.

I do not remember not carefully considering my options. I was the kid who read all the answers to test questions. I was the kid who planned everything I could. I was the kid who never interrupted others, because no matter what they said, their behavior and words would give me more information, and the more information I had the better I could choose how to respond.

It wasn’t as though I was making important decisions prior to the shooting. My choices did not do much to impact the people and the world around me. Killing my shooter was the first important decision I made. I did not think before I made it. I did not choose to do that the way I had always chosen to do other things. And maybe that was because the circumstances were horrible and traumatizing and deadly, but maybe that had nothing to do with it at all. I can’t even say, because I didn’t have a thought, a prelude, a reason. I didn’t have anything. I just acted, and I am not someone who does that.

My own education has done wonders in helping me accept what my head is doing. I literally went from being a perfectly healthy child to bleeding out and beginning to die because of another person in a matter of seconds. Nobody can cope with a change like that in that short amount of time. I know that. It makes sense that my brain shorted out, removed my personality from the equation so it could get my body to do what needed to be done, because my personality was going to make me hesitate and gather more information. I could not afford that hesitation. The living campers and counselors could not afford that hesitation. My brain knew that.

I’m always going to have moments in which I feel like I should have died. I am always going to have instances of critical self-blame in which I consider myself a killer. But I knew that already, and that is fine. Not ideal, but fine. I have the tools to deal with those feelings when they come up, and if they begin to bother me too much, I have my friends and family and therapist. I had to get up off the floor after I was shot eight times so I could kill my shooter and save almost forty other people. I had to do that alone. I do not have to deal with the aftermath alone.

Once we get a foothold on this, Andy asks me about my knee.

“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s stiff, but it hasn’t worsened the chronic pain.”

“I’m under the impression joint replacements are not difficult surgeries,” he replies. “My mother had her hip replaced a few years ago. Her recovery was about three weeks, but she’s able to do all her own gardening again.”

My cane is across my lap and I’m fiddling with the skull handle. “My body hates foreign material. I’m worried I’d have an immune reaction to my fake knee and then I’d have to go on heavier immunomodulating meds. The stuff I’m on already has noticeable side effects.”

“Okay.” He nods. “That sounds like a completely rational fear. I’m just wondering if that’s the reason you are choosing not to pursue surgery.”

I think, quickly, about the conversations we’ve been having for the past week and come to the conclusion I don’t know what he’s talking about. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

He scratches his head above his left ear. He’s in his late forties and he’s getting his first silver hairs. He has a few in his beard, too. They really stand out against his dark skin, but I’m over fifteen years younger than him and I might be completely grey by the time I’m his age. More proof of my shitty health.

“I mean that you have acknowledged reflexively reacting to hostility or threats by preemptively attempting to take the perceived threat out of commission,” Andy says. “I’m wondering if you’re using your disabled leg to temper that. You can’t quickly injure anyone if you can’t move quickly at all.”

This strikes me somewhere deep, but I know the answer to this question. “I… haven’t thought about it. Consciously.”

Is that what I’m doing? I wasn’t lying, I am really reluctant to risk putting something permanent and foreign in my body. My body hates itself, it has made antibodies to my own DNA, so my expectations of my immune system tolerating something foreign are low. And it’s true that if that happens, the kind of drug regimen I will have to submit to is going to be exceedingly unpleasant. More unpleasant than having a limp and trouble moving. But am I using it as a buffer for my own reflexes? I developed those reflexes to stop people from getting hurt. So that next time I run into a killer, I have that person down before they can shoot up a group of children.

But I _fucked up_. I attacked a cop who was there to help somebody. I messed up and maybe… maybe some masochistic part of my brain thinks this is what I deserve. Maybe this will keep me from fucking up again.

“I don’t know,” I say after a moment. “I’ve been allowed to get away with a lot. I was only allowed to get away with it because I was the adult human closest to the monsters’ Surfacing. Maybe it seems like I should take it when I’m finally not allowed to get away with something.”

“So you deserve to have a crippled leg?” he asks. “For how long? How many months or years before you can consider surgery without guilt?”

I give him a flatly unamused look, but he keeps pressing. “How about the shooting? Did you deserve that, too? Those children you’re taking care of, did they deserve their traumas?”

“Okay, I get it,” I say. I’ve used that trick plenty of times on the kids, and on my own patients. “No, I don’t deserve it. But my immune system is honestly a piece of garbage, and… I’m just tired. Of all the medical shit. I’ve had ten surgeries and even more procedures during which I had to be sedated or anesthetized. I’ve owned a damn pill case since I was thirteen. It’s incredibly rare when I get through a day without having any pain or limited movement. I got a fucking living will the day I turned eighteen. I’m tired of it.”

I’ve fucked up a lot lately, what with tackling a cop and my relapsed narcotic abuse and not telling Sans things when I should. But I helped Chara get through their surgery. Their health has been improving ever since. I hope – I _really_ hope – that I have helped spare them from this feeling. That surgery was definitely their best shot. I am glad they pushed themself to do it.

Andy waits a beat, then asks, “When you’re sick – really sick – what do you do? What does your day look like? Do you stay home? Do you sleep more?”

I consider. “Usually I’ll have Sans or Papyrus bring me the narcotics. Then, when those kick in, I can try to go about my day like a normal person. I can still do it, I’m just stoned doing it.”

“We both know you have an excessive drive to complete tasks. Would you be willing to try something different the next time this happens?”

I snort a little. “You’re going to ask me to stay in bed all day, aren’t you.”

“In bed, on the couch, in a recliner, anywhere you can relax. Watch crappy movies all day. Read. Take a nap. Don’t do any work. You’re going to feel the urge to do something productive. Ignore it. Now is an excellent time for you to learn how to relax.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’ve already committed to only using your narcotics when your pain is at a seven or higher. That means not using them to increase your efficiency. If you really feel like you have to be doing something when you’re supposed to be learning how to relax, tell yourself you’re breaking bad habits surrounding your narcotics. That’s something. That’s something important.”

Damnit, he makes everything so logical. He’s where I learnt it from, after all. This is going to be hard. He’s asking me to sit still, to sleep more, to listen to my body. I dislike doing all three of those things, even though all three would be good for me.

“We need to bring Sans in so you can explain this to him,” I say. “If I commit to trying this in front of him, I’m far more likely to do it. And he’s likely to remind me of the reasoning when I whine about it.”

Andy smirks. “At least you’re being more honest with yourself.”

I pull out my phone to text Sans. “He keeps me as honest as I can get.” I’m kind of a liar otherwise. “He’s going to be ecstatic to hear you told me to take more naps.”


	14. Negotiation: a dialogue between two or more parties aimed at resolving points of difference or conflict.

Alphys recruits Chara to be present when they talk to Undyne. This concerns Asgore, so he gives his child the option to sit out, but they want to be here.

Undyne is frequently grinning or smirking – not as often as Sans, but it means something different for her. She is always trying to find something in her vicinity to enjoy or improve or fight against. When she is happy, she grins like a shark. When she is angry, she looks furious. Whatever she is feeling, it shows up on her face, leaving absolutely no room for doubt in observers.

When Alphys tells her about her determination readings, Undyne waits quietly until she is done speaking. Her expression begins slightly perplexed and shifts to something more serious.

When Alphys is finished, Undyne says, “So you’re telling me I could take a death blow.”

“N-no!!!” Alphys practically squawks. “That’s not wh-what I was saying at all!!!”

“But I did before,” Undyne says.

Her gaze lands on Chara. “Yeah, you did,” they say. “And that was after Frisk and I left a trail of dust from the Ruins to Waterfall. That was after Snowdin evacuated in terror. That was after I attacked a defenseless child. Without the kind of emotion evoked from those events, there is no guarantee whatsoever you could pull off that Undying trick again.”

“In fact, it seems really unlikely,” Alphys adds quickly. “A-and that technically never happened! We c-c-can guess, but we have no evidence as to what actually allowed you to survive.”

Asgore is grateful she was able to speak, because he needs a moment after hearing Chara say that. That his children were in so much pain they lashed out in such a way… it is nearly unthinkable to him.

“Yeah, okay,” Undyne says. “I get that. But I did it again, in this timeline. Sort of.”

Alphys blinks, confused. “What do you mean, Undyne?” Asgore asks, unsure himself.

“The shooting,” Chara says quietly.

Asgore glances at them and Undyne nods. “Yeah, that. I mean, I was unconscious, so I don’t remember, but you guys told me I took an awfully long time to dust from an attack that should have killed me. So long the prince was able to heal me. Wasn’t that a manifestation of my high determination, or whatever?”

Alphys’s gaze narrows in thought. “It’s… certainly possible. I n-never thought about it that way.”

There is a pause. Undyne breaks into a grin and nods, nudging Alphys. “See? This is why I’m so awesome, I have determination!!”

This is going to go precisely in the direction Asgore feared it would go. “Undyne,” he breaks in seriously. “You deserved to know this because it is about you. This is not to make you feel as though you have to take every hit thrown at us. Nobody wants you to do that.”

She laughs. “Come on, Asgore, that’s my job! I’m Captain of the Royal Guard!”

Alphys bites her lip anxiously, which prompts him to attempt a sterner tone. “Yes, and I will not condone excessive recklessness from my Captain, no matter how determined she is. I am serious, Undyne. I won’t allow you to take unnecessary risks.”

Chara picks at the tablecloth. “Isla already thinks she has to be a human shield,” they comment casually. “We sure as hell don’t need two of Isla.”

No, they certainly don’t. Isla is like Mettaton in that the both of them are… intense people. Doubling either one of them would simply be a lot. Too much, even.

The grin drops from Undyne’s face. “Oh, that’s what you’re worried about? I get it. I’m not gonna pretend this doesn’t mean anything, but I get it. I’m not gonna go off the rails. I know I owe Asriel my life. I know I’m not invincible.”

Alphys begins to look a little less nervous. “It’s still my job to take everyone’s strengths and weaknesses into consideration during an attack and act accordingly,” Undyne continues. “It’s still my job to protect this family and our people with my life, if it comes to that. But I’m not gonna be an idiot doing it.”

“We wouldn’t dream of k-keeping you from your job,” Alphys says. She glances away. “I j-just… wish I knew more, so I could give you more information...”

Undyne wraps an arm around her wife. Asgore is sure it’s meant to be affectionate, but it looks as though it is edging closer to a headlock than a hug. “Naaahhh,” Undyne replies. “I don’t need more than this! Hell, I didn’t even need this, everyone knows I’m kickass already!!! But I’m glad you told me, because it’s nice to have a measurement of how kickass I am!!!”

Alphys is blushing and smiling despite the almost-chokehold. In his peripheral vision, Asgore can see Chara struggling not to smile, too. He knows they have always held some degree of idolization for Undyne, but they would likely die of embarrassment if he were to bring that up.

“Undyne,” Chara says. They speak a little less quietly when she turns her attention to them. “I was wondering… if you have time, could we maybe practice some of those maneuvers you taught me on Tuesday?”

True to form, Undyne shoots up out of her seat and bellows, “SURE!!! We gotta whip you into shape, punk!!”

“It – doesn’t have to be right now,” Chara says quickly. “Just – when you have time.”

They are still unused to the idea of anyone rearranging their schedule for them. “Now’s fine!!” Undyne declares, marching around the table towards the basement. “LET’S GO!!!”

Asgore pats Chara on the head. “She loves practicing,” he says.

Alphys nods in agreement. “Yeah, you p-probably just made her day.”

Chara looks at them both, then gets up and follows Undyne. They look as though they enjoy the training, too, oddly enough. Perhaps Undyne is actually being reasonable about her regimen with Chara.

When the basement door closes, Alphys says, “Thank you, Asgore. I th-think that went well.”

He chuckles. “It is no problem. I know how she can be, but you did such a good job explaining everything. I cannot even remember the last time I saw her sit still for that long.”

 

* * *

 

Every day for seven weeks, Toriel goes to the memorial greenhouse after school.

She paces and touches the flowers and sits on the bench next to the fountain and listens to the trickle of the water. She remembers. She thinks. And – she begins to feel again.

When she started coming here, she did not expect to cry so much, but here she is. She never asked for their names. Not a single one of them. Not even Frisk, even though she tried her hardest to keep them from leaving. As if it was less real if she did not know their names. As if going through the motions of caring for a child would rid her of the grief and sorrow in her soul from losing Chara and Asriel.

As if she somehow knew she did not deserve a second chance. She had failed her children. She had failed to do the most basic thing and keep them alive. She had failed to see what was really going on.

It was easier to let the fallen humans out of the Ruins than to do what she thought was best. It was easier to give up than to try. She could not fail again if she did not try.

She accused Asgore of not following through because he did not absorb the first soul and go get six others. Really, she was doing the same. She let them all go, even Frisk. They both lost their conviction after their children died. They were stuck while the world kept moving around them. He was stuck in his anger and she was stuck pretending she was fine.

Toriel has learnt more about being okay in the last seven years than she did in the hundred preceding the fall of the barrier. She watched all three of her children try to find ways in which they could be okay. She tried to help them when she could. She tried to get better herself, but she kept getting caught on these dead children who – if she is completely honest with herself – she did not know that well. These children who ended up complying with Asgore’s goal to break the barrier.

If she were to forgive their murder, what would that mean?

What would that say about her? She had always prided herself on her morals, her integrity. Would it be a betrayal of herself to forgive? Would it be a betrayal of herself not to?

She wants to distract herself. It is a thoughtless, reflexive urge and she becomes angry at herself for it. She spent an entire century redirecting herself when the sorrow and self-blame neared her awareness. What were the fallen humans to her, if she never asked for their names? Were they distractions so she would not have to face the loss of her children?

Frustrated with herself, she turns her attention externally, to her surroundings – and suddenly realizes something.

Asgore spent years sinking magic into this place. Magic is a manifestation of the user’s emotion, of their intent. When she stills herself and casts out her senses, she can feel the layers upon layers of magic in this place. Layers of Asgore’s regret and self-loathing and resignation and later, his acceptance.

And she understands those emotions never went away. At some point, he accepted he would always feel that way, and he gave himself this space and the task of maintaining it. He can come here and feel that way so he can finally feel something else when he leaves, something good.

Is she capable of doing that? Is she capable of giving herself the time and space to feel what she spent a century avoiding? What if it implodes and she can no longer be around Asgore? How will that affect her children, her friends, her people? Can she risk that?

What if she just cannot handle it?

If she tries, and fails… what would that mean?

Is that what she has been doing all these decades? Refusing to try in order to protect herself? He told her he wanted to try again, he told her he was ready to face everything surrounding the fallen humans. He told her that and she can feel the proof in his magic sunk into the delicate blossoms all around her.

Every other time she has left this greenhouse, this memorial, she has steeled herself and figured out what was next on her task list. She has always been able to dry her tears and get back to her life.

This time, she cannot. She knows what she finally has to do.

There is no way she can walk through the Embassy like this, so she checks the time and calls Sans. He typically attends class and has office hours late mornings and early afternoons. After that, he either does research at the college or works at the soul lab with Alphys, but those are jobs from which he can step away for a moment.

He picks up on the third ring. “S’up, Tori?”

She is at a loss. How is it that she is unable to ask her best friend for help? “Knock knock,” she utters into the phone.

As always, he is a good sport. “Who’s there?”

“Boo.”

“Boo who?”

“Oh, come now. There is—” her voice finally cracks, “—there is no need to cry.”

“Tori?” He sounds confused and concerned. “You okay?”

She does her best to calm herself down. “I am in the gardens behind the Embassy. I would very much appreciate it if you could come get me.”

“Sure, I’ll be there in a minute. Do I need to tell anyone you gotta leave?”

“I came in with Frisk and Asriel after school. But, Sans… I do not want to worry them.”

“S’fine, I got it covered. Gimme a minute.”

After he hangs up, she wanders closer to the Embassy so she will be easier to find, but not too close. Anyone could come out here and see her like this, and then they would tell her children. They have enough to worry about without wondering why their mother is crying in the middle of the gardens.

Sans is more sensitive to magic and presence and intent than the vast majority of monsters are and he has no trouble finding her. “Told Frisk you forgot somethin’ and you didn’t wanna pull them away from whatever they were doing,” he says, knowing it is what she will want to hear first. “They’ll tell Asriel and get a ride home with their dad.”

She wipes her eyes again, admittedly much calmer than she was when she stepped out of that greenhouse. “Good. Thank you, Sans.”

He cocks his head to the side and steps forward. She bends down to give him a hug. “So what’s up?” he asks casually.

She pulls back and stands up straight. “I think I would like to talk to Isla.”

 

* * *

 

Sans texts me and I head home early. “I’ll give you a minute,” he says, then looks at Toriel. “I’ll be in my room, though, if ya want me to sit in later.”

When he goes, Toriel says, “He has heard this already, though not all at once. I do not know what he has told you.”

She’s… calm, but I can tell something has upset her recently. “Honestly, he only tells me things when he thinks I might be better suited to handle it,” I reply. “Which means he mentions when something seems to upset you, which isn’t often, and even when he says something it’s vague. If this is about Asgore showing you the memorial, Asgore told me about that the day after he did it.”

“It is,” she admits. “And… it isn’t, in a way. I just… I am tired. I do not think I can keep doing this.”

And finally, _finally_ , she opens her mouth and spills. She tells me about how her children basically told her and Asgore not to use them as an excuse anymore. She tells me about the memorial and how she behaved towards the fallen humans and how she spent a whole damn century pretending everything was fine when everything was clearly not fine and how they came up here and she poured all her energy into Frisk and then into Asriel and Chara when they were returned to her and how she cannot seem to stop and take some serious time for herself because there is this constant drive to care for the people around her, the people she loves, and make sure everything is alright in their lives.

I’ve never been particularly close to Toriel, not in the way I am close to Asgore. Toriel and I were used to occupying the same role. We were both used to being the person who took care of everyone else. I was forced by the shooting and my subsequent hospitalization and trauma to rely heavily on other people, so I got over the guilt of letting other people take care of me. She never did. She feels like a failure whenever she requires help caring for herself or other people. She has been putting her own emotions off since the night Chara and Asriel died.

“It can be easier,” I say slowly, “to help other people than it is to help yourself. You still feel as though you are doing something worthwhile, especially if you are helping someone you love. It’s less painful, too. I did the same thing, Toriel. I distracted myself by fixing other people’s problems for years before I realized something had to change. I’m glad you realized it sooner. I know you don’t view this as a success right now, but it is. This is the right thing to do.”

She has been crying since she began talking, but she’s composed. “I… only want this to be resolved.”

“And what do you think you have to do?”

“I am worried about the children,” she admits. “They have all been doing fairly well lately. I would not want to put unnecessary stress upon them.”

“Do you believe it’s unnecessary to deal with your emotions?”

“Of course not. I simply wish I were more proficient at dealing with them.” She pauses. “I have been grieving for the past seven weeks. I do not feel as though I am doing a very good job.”

“What do you believe a good job would look like?”

She chuckles a little. “Something unrealistic, I am sure.”

She trails off and I wait. She came to me with her mind already made up. She knows what she has to do. She simply wanted to calm down prior to doing it. She wanted a little reassurance.

“I need to speak to Asgore,” she says.

I nod. “That sounds like a good idea to me.”

“Can you and Sans be available? In case it goes badly.”

“Yes.” If she is asking this of us, then I am justified in questioning her. We may need to prepare ourselves. “That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. What do you expect to happen?”

“Honestly, Isla? I would tell you I’m preparing for the worst possible outcome, except I feel completely unprepared for any outcome, good or bad. I do not even know what I think a good outcome would be. I have no idea. I have been trying to get an idea for the past seven weeks, but… it hasn’t worked.” She pauses. “I have never really done this before. I have never done something without deciding on several possible courses of action.”

“Are you comfortable doing this?” I ask.

“Not really,” she answers. “But I am stuck. Doing nothing is not an option.” Her gaze slides away. “I am not sure anything will change. Between Asgore and myself, I was always the one who made the decisions, and it seems I cannot decide.”

 

* * *

 

When Asgore gets home, he is humming a song that was playing in his van. He does not notice how quiet it is until Toriel calls his name.

“Howdy, Tori,” he replies. “Are the children upstairs?”

She is sitting on the sectional. “No,” she replies. “They are with Undyne and Alphys.”

Perhaps Chara wanted to train with Undyne again. “Ah, alright.”

“Come sit with me for a moment,” she says, patting the cushion next to her.

He obeys automatically. He has the fleeting thought that she may wish to speak with him about something and he hesitates to dismiss it. Is that the reason why their children are not here?

Calmly, she says, “I must thank you again for allowing me to visit the memorial greenhouse. I have been there quite often recently.”

He still feels hesitant. “Of course. I am glad to share it with you.”

“It’s a good place to think. And I have been doing a lot of thinking lately.”

He is unsure how to interpret this. He has a fairly good idea, but – but it’s probably wishful thinking, right, to believe that the memorial helped her in the same way it has helped him. He does not know, so he should check.

“About the fallen humans?” he asks.

“About them,” she replies. “And about us, too.”

His soul flips within him. Logically, he knows it is ridiculous to feel this way again. They spent years upon years married and in love and his soul is doing what it used to do in the days when he was smitten but before he had any idea how she felt about him.

“I felt it,” she continues. “All the magic you put into that memorial. The time it took you. What you went through as you did it. It’s all there. You could have quit. I know I probably would have quit. I always tried to bury anything negative that I felt, and I always failed.”

“Tori,” he protests weakly. He does not want to hear her talk about herself in this way.

“We both refused to face many things, Asgore,” she says, undeterred. “But you, you _did_ it. You faced it and let it wash over you and you beat it. You built the memorial and you have continued to take care of it. You figured out how to deal with it and then you showed me the way.

“And I have been there for nearly two months and I don’t know what to do. I know I wish you had not killed those children. I know we would not have gotten out had you not killed them. I know they helped Asriel break the barrier, and I am so happy the barrier was broken. I know I want to forgive you, but I still don’t know if I am capable. And I – I worry that if we go much deeper into this, you may find yourself unable to forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” he repeats, baffled. “Why would I have to forgive you?”

“Because I left.” Her voice is lowering. She closes her eyes. “I left our people and you and I have been unable to catch up. You have forged ahead and dealt with the consequences of your mistakes and regrets. You gave yourself a space in which you could face the past so you could support our people and our children in the present. I felt that at the memorial. I have been unable to do what you have done. I do not know if I’m even a good enough person to do what you have done.”

Asgore does not know what to say to this. He wants to tell her she is wrong, that there is nothing she has done that requires forgiveness, but he has always had immeasurable difficulty making himself disagree with Toriel once she makes up her mind. He has been unsure of himself his entire life. Whether it was as a king or as a father or as a politician, he has always looked to other people to validate his choices. Most often, that person was Toriel. She was always so sure of herself, never indecisive. He always felt good supporting her choices because she always made the correct choice. It never occurred to him that at some point, she would need him to guide her to do the right thing.

And that’s the problem. He was never good at seeing the right thing. The one time he made a decision on his own, it was a decision to start a war. If she cannot guide him to guide her, how can he act?

He has to choose on his own. And he does not know if this is the correct thing to do right now, but he cannot stand to continue doing nothing.

He takes her face between his hands and kisses her. There is a surge of emotion but he takes care to keep his grip light. He would rather she simply move away than throw a fireball at him, and she will be more inclined to do the latter if he pushes this too hard.

There is, of course, a moment in which she freezes and he instantly believes that this was the wrong choice, but it is only a moment. A moment before she pulls him to her and one of her teeth pricks his lower lip and they are finally, _finally_ sitting in the same space and time. And there are regrets and anger and grief piled in the corners and they will have to take care of it, but at least they are no longer pretending it isn’t there. They are finally breathing the same air.

She pulls back, but it is to say, “We should take this upstairs.”

Oh, golly. That – seems fast and he should point that out but his attention is very rapidly shifting to parts of his body that don’t encourage clear thinking. All he gets out is, “The – children. When are they coming home?”

Toriel very nearly glares daggers at the clock on the mantle. “We have enough time,” she replies, and that is good enough for him.

 

* * *

 

During the last week of November, Sans gets home late. He’s in a good mood. “Students took their second exam today,” he tells me. “We finished grading all of ‘em. They did pretty well.”

“They have a good TA,” I reply. “If you haven’t eaten dinner, Papyrus made lasagna.”

“I’ll have to take some in for lunch tomorrow. One of the other TA’s brought sandwiches for the grading party.” He hangs his bag on one of the hooks next to the door. “I’m gonna go change.”

That’s always the first thing he does when he gets home. He heads upstairs. I close my laptop, set it aside, and push myself to a standing position. I have to stick my left leg out straight and bend my right knee, which puts all my weight on my right leg until I’m upright. My arms have gotten stronger because I’ve been using them to push myself up, but it’s not worth the lack of function in my left leg.

I grab my cane and head upstairs. Stairs take a lot longer than they used to. When I pass Papyrus’s room, I hear muffled Beethoven. Kalene has been getting him into different kinds of music lately.

Our door is wide open because Sans cares less about being naked than I do, but I close it behind me. He’s sticking his skull into one of my old University of California T-shirts. “Do you want to have sex?” I ask.

He pauses. “You sure? Didn’t go so well last time we tried.”

“I’ve been doing those exercises Spencer described to me. We’ll still have to take my leg into account, but I should be okay.”

A few weeks ago was the first time we tried to have sex in months. Between my injury and hospitalization and the handful of medical problems that popped up as a result of the injury and hospitalization and then PT, my body decided to respond to the physical and emotional stress with increased muscle tension. Then Sans started at the college and until he got the hang of it, he was nervous and distracted and I was busy with Chara until their surgery, and we’ve both been a little busier helping my sister and Zach while they have mini freak outs over being new parents. When we finally had the time to touch one another, my pelvic floor muscles couldn’t take the hint and _relax_ , so penetration just hurt me and I was angry with my body so we bailed.

“What do you wanna do about the knee?” he asks. “It might be easier for you to be on your back. That way you won’t have to bend it.”

“Will doing the work tire you out too much?” We both usually prefer me being on top. Sans likes to conserve his energy and I like to be in control. We don’t always do that, but it’s what happens most often.

“C’mere.” He pats the edge of the bed. I sit down and he takes my cane and leans it against the nightstand on this side of the bed. “I can do it,” he says. “I have somethin’ in mind, so I’d like to go ahead and just do it, but you have to say something if it’s painful for you.”

“Trust me, you’ll know if it is.”

He knows I’m telling the truth. He raises his hands to my face and kisses me. We haven’t had much time to do something as simple as this, either, so it feels nice.

His plan is simple: lots of foreplay. I am frankly surprised he has the endurance for this, but he manages it without issue. We prop pillows behind my back for me to lean on and he slides one under my knee after carefully moving my leg to the side. He gets to work and he knows what to do and he proves he’s more patient than me because eventually I’m telling him that we can see how well those exercises worked any time now. Even once he’s inside me, he moves slowly so he doesn’t jostle my knee. I have none of the sharp, burning pain that was present last time.

When we are done, he hands me my cane so I can go to the bathroom. That was probably the longest we have ever spent on sex. We typically try to maximize pleasure for the least amount of effort. Papyrus’s room is quiet and there is no light filtering underneath his door. Must be asleep.

When I return to our room, Sans is half-asleep, too. He has shorts on and nothing else. I’m cold, so I put on a T-shirt and underwear and fuzzy socks before I climb into bed.

We are settled in with the lights off and the covers pulled up when it happens.

It’s incredibly odd. When Sans teleports, he doesn’t make any noise, but this sounds the way it feels when he teleports with me. Something about the space around us shifts, moves, vibrates, opens.

Sans shoots up in bed, throwing the covers off, and freezes. His response makes me sit up and ask, “What was that?”

“Dunno,” he mutters. “Something’s… not right.”

I turn one of the bedside lamps on and reach for my cane. “What do you think—?”

There is a knock on our door. “Sans?” Papyrus says. “Isla?”

Sans gets up and opens the door. “Paps, stay here with Isla,” he says, and heads out of our room.

Well, that wasn’t smart. Crippled or not, I am still his best defense if it is something dangerous. I’m not supposed to be thinking like that anymore, but his stats are too low for him to fight on his own when Papyrus and I are here and perfectly capable of supporting him.

Papyrus helps me to my feet and follows me when I quickly limp to the door. When I get out on the balcony, I see Sans facing the basement door. Once Papyrus comes up next to me and stops moving, I hear what sounds like someone ascending the basement stairs. Sans’s left eyesocket begins to glow with blue light.

I move towards the stairs as fast I can. Papyrus follows me. I am one step away from the ground floor when I hear the door open.

All at once, Sans’s eyesocket goes dark and his fists loosen into hands and his ready, serious expression slackens into surprise. “Dad?”


	15. Bittersweet: happiness mingled with sadness or regret.

I send Papyrus back upstairs to get me pants and Sans a shirt. Gaster sits in my therapy chair. Sans and I sit on the couch. When Gaster sees my cane, he snorts in laughter, which makes me feel a little better.

When we are dressed and settled, the cats finally come out of hiding to meet our guest. Papyrus stands in the middle of the room and stares at us all. His arms are crossed. “Who would like to begin?” he asks. “I believe I am owed an explanation. Sans?”

“Uh,” Sans utters. “Paps, this is our… dad. His name’s Gaster.”

Gaster stands and extends a hand towards Papyrus. “I understand this must feel like our first meeting to you, Papyrus,” he says. “My full name is W.D. Gaster. I usually go by Gaster—”

Papyrus gives his father’s hand a disinterested look. “Nonsense. You are my dad, so I will call you Dad!” And Papyrus lurches forward to grab his startled father in a hug.

They’re the same height. And as I’m sitting here, looking at them, I’m noticing that Gaster is lacking that weird, almost-fuzzy outline around him. His presence looks normal, no different from any other monster in Newer Home.

“That works too,” Gaster chuckles.

I glance at Sans, but he still seems to be in shock, so I ask the question. “Are you going to disappear again?”

Gaster pulls away from Papyrus to look at me. “I don’t believe so,” he replies. “It feels different than when I was formerly in this timeline.”

Sans goes to shove his hands in his pockets only to realize he doesn’t have pockets. Jennifur jumps on the couch so she can sit on his lap. “So… how is it that you’re here and you’re staying here?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps it was on a whim. Or by demand.”

I’m not sure what he means by that. “You’re _sure_ you’re staying? And you’re sure your presence didn’t mess up the timeline somehow?”

Gaster nods. “I am fairly certain of that. After all, we only have a few chapters left. There is not enough time for a save-the-timeline subplot.”

I lean towards Sans. “What the hell is he talking about?”

“It’s a joke,” Sans mutters. “You’re not supposed to get it. It’s not for you. And, Dad, the series is only halfway through, so no more spoilers, okay? Even saying something won’t happen is spoilers.”

Alright. They’re both crazy, but whatever. Gaster glances out the window. “I have poor timing, don’t I? I must have woken you up.”

Papyrus stomps a foot. “Dad!!! Waking us up is perfectly fine!!! Because you are now home to stay!!!”

I look at Sans, and when I do, he snaps out of whatever he was thinking about. “Paps, why don’t you make up the guest bedroom?” he suggests. “Dad can sleep there. We can talk more in the morning.”

Papyrus scampers off to do just that. Sans stands up after dislodging Jennifur. “Welp, I gotta get some sleep. We’re givin’ the students their exam scores back tomorrow. They’ll wanna know just how much they can slack off on studying for the final.”

Gaster’s expression brightens. “You’re a teacher? What do you teach?”

“Teaching assistant. Physics at the college.” His voice and his usual grin are flat. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Gaster. G’night.”

He heads towards the stairs, all three cats trailing him. At least he was able to keep the act up in front of Papyrus. Gaster notices, too, because the smile drops off his face.

I push myself to my feet. “Are you okay to sleep?” I ask. “Whatever happened to you... it can’t have been easy.”

“I am fine,” Gaster replies. “Is Sans mad at me?”

“Sans is tired, and he can tell you how he feels tomorrow,” I say. “Normally I’d have Undyne do this. She’s a lot more visually intimidating than I am, but I doubt you need to be intimidated. We’re spearheading a political movement that has attracted violence and opposition. We’re sitting on secrets that could bring us down.”

“Ah,” Gaster murmurs. “You mean the fallen humans. No wonder integration went well. The humans do not know.”

I shift my weight so I can limp by him. “And they’re never going to know. Right?”

“That... is probably the best option.” He looks at me. “I understand, Isla. I will have to earn your trust.”

“You can start by humoring Papyrus. He’s going to want to take care of you until you’re settled in.”

 

* * *

 

It is strange to meet his old Royal Scientist again. Asgore knows nothing about Gaster, but cannot seem to shake the feeling that he _knows_ him. Once Sans and Gaster explain things a little, the feeling makes more sense.

What doesn’t help is that his brain is not entirely there today. He and Toriel had a whispered conversation about when and how they should tell the children that they are – well… Asgore supposes first he should ask Toriel what exactly they are doing. Are they trying again? He assumed so, but – they did not get much talking done yesterday after they went upstairs, and then their children got home and they had to pretend nothing had happened because they need more to tell their children than ‘we had sex one time.’

And now, with this, he knows that conversation is going to be put off for at least a few days. Everyone will have to wrap their heads around the presence of Sans and Papyrus’s father first.

“Wow.” Alphys rubs her head. “Some things m-make a lot more sense after hearing that.”

“Yup,” Sans says lazily. “Was wondering if you wanted to show Gaster CORE II, Alph. I gotta go to the school.”

Gaster looks down at his son. “Weren’t you going to let them know you aren’t coming in today?”

“Nah, Paps called off work. Figured he’d be enough to show you the city and bring you up to speed.”

Sans vanishes. “CORE II isn’t a far walk,” Alphys says nervously. “L-let’s see if any of the kids want to tag along and possibly take over because I’m not the greatest at tours??”

Papyrus overhears. “I WILL ASSIST YOU, ALPHYS!!! I happen to be very great at giving tours!!! Right this way, Dad!!!”

“I am certain we will speak again soon,” Asgore says. “I am very happy you are back, Gaster.”

Gaster grins. “I’m happy too. I’ll be in touch. It was good to see you both.”

As he heads for the front door with Alphys and Papyrus, Frisk, Chara, and Asriel glance at one another. Frisk breaks away from the group to tag along on Papyrus’s tour. Asriel and Chara stay next to Isla, who is sitting down.

Asgore glances at Toriel next to him. “You were quiet,” he says.

“Yes, well, I believe Gaster was more your friend than mine,” she replies. “And I… have a lot on my mind. I am surprised you don’t.”

“Oh, I do.” He looks around to make sure nobody is within earshot, even though Isla has repeatedly told him not to do that. It only makes it more obvious that what he is about to say is something he does not want just anyone hearing. “I wanted to ask you, Tori… are we back together? What are we doing?”

She is better at this private-conversation-in-public thing. “I… want us to be back together,” she says. “I am still very wary of this, Gorey.”

“Do you think… perhaps we moved a little quickly yesterday?”

At that, the tip of her nose turns pink and she giggles, but she almost immediately chokes on the giggle and clears her throat. “Perhaps,” she says. “Maybe we should… wait. Until we have things a little more figured out.”

He nods. “That sounds like a good idea.”

“Then again…” she continues, staring straight ahead, “it was a lot of fun. Maybe we should keep having fun.”

Oh, golly. His knees are beginning to go weak. “That… sounds like a better idea.” Normally, he would not be so bold as to suggest something like this, but it’s out of his mouth before he can even consider his words. “My office door has a lock on it.”

“Oh.” The tip of her nose goes from pink to bright red. He wants to nuzzle her, but he knows better than to do so in front of so many people. “Isla, dear?” Toriel calls. “Asgore and I have some political business to attend to. We won’t be long.”

Isla looks up. Asgore freezes reflexively because she will _see_ , but it is no use because her sharp gaze takes in his posture and Toriel’s blush. Her eyebrows crawl up under her bangs. “Sure thing,” she replies easily. “Don’t have _too_ much fun up there.”

 

* * *

 

Toriel decides that, in addition to having a winter party at her house, she will also throw one at the Embassy. For political purposes. It is important to mingle with humans because some of them still talk of segregation. Since she put together the gathering and did a substantial amount of decorating and cooking, she decides to leave much of the actual politics to Frisk and Asriel, and Asgore, if he feels like participating.

Politics always bored her. Already she feels Frisk is a far better politician than she is, and Asriel, who has little experience, is nearly there as well. She cannot wait until she can teach for the rest of her life without having to call in a sub so often because things are expected of her as queen.

Because this gathering is unrequired, there is a casual element to it. Toriel invited the entire Embassy staff because most of them do not work directly in politics. Nearly a third of the staff is human and she wants some of the human politicians to see how monsters and humans interact on a daily basis.

Shannon shows up with Zachary, who also has winter break off, and their baby. Almost immediately, Asriel approaches them and asks if he can hold little Saoirse, and Shannon hands her off so she can raid the buffet counter.

Zachary comes over to Toriel. “Greetings,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” he admits readily. “Babies are hard.”

Babies _are_ hard. Toriel remembers having Asriel on top of the kingdom – it had been overwhelming, but her pregnancy brought their people such hope, and Asgore was wonderful with baby Asriel. He played with the child for hours, distracting him so Toriel could get a few things done or take a nap.

Asgore always liked babies. Apparently her son does too, since he chooses to ignore all the adults in the room so he can sit down and rock Saoirse for a while.

“If you ever need a babysitter, let me know and I will ask Asriel,” she replies.

Zachary chuckles. “We’ve had Isla and Papyrus do it a couple of times, but I’ll keep that in mind. He seems like he’s really good with her, for how little experience with babies he has. He’s getting to be really tall.”

Yes, he is. He is nearly six-and-a-half feet tall and come January he will be sixteen and soon he will be able to drive. When did that happen? He has mostly been learning from Asgore and Frisk and Papyrus and he’s going to need his own vehicle, too. His horns are getting longer and soon enough he is going to grow a mane. Asgore is going to get more silver in his beard and Toriel’s joints are going to be sore when she wakes up and these were things she wanted fiercely after she lost her children, these signs of aging after being frozen in time for a century, but they mean her children are growing up.

She finds Frisk with her gaze, remembering how they would have to stick close by her or Asgore years ago. Now they are chatting with adult humans without a trace of hesitation or fear. They have gotten to be so good at their job and, more importantly, they have really come into themself. They know who they are and what their goals are and they have confidence in those aspects of themself.

“Yes, he is,” Toriel says, and hears, to her mortification, that her voice sounds watery.

Zachary notices. “Oh, crap,” he blurts. “I – I’m sorry. Was it something I said? I—”

She laughs. “Oh, do stop apologizing, dear. I only got a little misty. It’s just – Frisk and Asriel are attending the university next fall. It seems as though my children are growing up so quickly. It is wonderful, but… it makes me sad sometimes, too.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” he says awkwardly. “That… I can’t imagine Saoirse being an adult. Honestly, I can barely even anticipate the next day.”

“This time will fly by. She will grow up very fast. Take lots of pictures.”

“Shannon’s on that. She’s all about the pictures.”

Toriel studies him for a moment. He and Shannon got here a little late. He appears to have forgotten to brush his hair and Shannon has gone back to the buffet table for seconds.

Well, he did outright tell Toriel earlier they are tired. “There are a couple of couches right off the elevator on the third floor,” she says. “You can take a quick nap, if you like. You will not be missing out on anything here.”

His eyes light up, hopeful, but he glances at his partner, who is still eating. “I can’t bail on Shannon.”

“Do not worry, I plan on sending her up there as well,” Toriel replies. “Frisk tends to become hungry like that when they do not sleep enough. It seems as though you could both use some rest. I am sure Asriel will not mind caring for Saoirse until you return.”

 

* * *

 

I am not required to do politics anymore, so after my obligatory appearance, I escape out into the gardens behind the Embassy.

It’s December, so there’s maybe a foot of snow on the ground and someone has cleared the paths, but it’s been lightly snowing for the last couple of hours, so I get to walk through a thin layer of virgin snow. I follow the main path to the crossroads. Ahead will take me to the fountain and the greenhouses near the edge of the property. Left will take me to the greenhouses where they grow produce. Right will take me to the flower gardens around the cherry blossom trees, so I cut right.

I limp until I decide I’m far enough away from the back doors, brush snow off the hip-high, decorative stone wall enclosing a flower bed against the wall of the Embassy, and sit my butt down. It’s cold, but after living so long in a place with real seasons you either get used to the cold during winter or you move someplace that doesn’t have a real winter.

Gaster has spent the last few weeks sitting for exams to get his degrees certified and jumping in on the interracial conception project he prompted when he was temporarily dumped into our timeline. I’m not sure if he has noticed Sans is avoiding him because he’s almost never at home. Alphys told me that when he’s not working, he’s at the lab, pouring over soul data and looking at the research we’ve done with it. Sans is trying his hardest to avoid him and he’s not getting any better about it.

I don’t know who to call on it. Obviously Sans will feel more obligated to address my concerns, but Gaster recently found out I was shot as a child and I have a kill on my soul and I think I have a window of time in which I can make demands of him and he will be complicit because of the acute pity. I should find some way to take advantage of it.

Final exams at the college start next week, so I should make that decision before then. Sans is going to be home a lot more after he’s done grading.

The snow crunches and I look up, snapped out of my head. One hand reflexively goes to my cane.

It’s Solomon Calder. I leave my cane where it is. If he wants to physically harm me – and I really don’t think he does – he would hire somebody to do so. There is no way he would do that sort of thing himself.

When he comes within conversational distance, he says, “I wanted to see what they do with the fountain in the winter, since the tree inside is so eye-catching. You left an obvious trail.”

Right. I left my own footprints and my cane left one, too. “One of the groundskeepers freezes the fountain,” I tell him. “They shape the water into a sculpture. When it starts to melt, they make another shape. If Asgore could work ice magic, he’d do it himself, but that’s not in his repertoire.”

There is a pause. “I haven’t seen you since you were fired,” Calder says. “I didn’t think you would be here.”

Fine. I guess we’re going to play it like that. “It has been a while. I’m sorry about your wife.”

He has one of the best damn poker faces I’ve ever seen – it’s better than mine, and it might even be better than Frisk’s – but I see something there. His face twitches in some way.

After a moment, he says, “No, you’re not.”

“Not really,” I reply easily. “What do you want?”

“I want to cut the crap, Isla.” He swipes some snow off the stone wall next to me and sits down. It’s a lot easier for him since he’s so much taller than me. “Frisk told you about how I’ve been helping them.”

This is weird. He used my first name and Frisk’s. Not sure he’s ever done that before. He usually maintains distance by calling people by their titles. “About how you’ve been helping them meet with some of your constituents? Yeah.”

“And about how my office is bugged.”

I wasn’t going to say it, but since he did, I guess it’s safe to address. “They mentioned that, too.”

“Well, I don’t believe my wife dying was an accident. I think someone hit her car on purpose.”

Wait, what? “You think… someone was trying to send you a message?”

“Prior to it, I received anonymous notes and calls instructing me to cease assisting Frisk. Those stopped immediately after she died even though I have not complied.” He scowls. “It makes me think they didn’t intend to kill anyone. When someone is dead, you cannot use them to threaten their family.”

Holy _shit,_ this is insane, but I have to stay on track. “Any chance you could send us the notes or calls?”

“Without them finding out? I doubt it.” He inhales through his nose and exhales slowly, breath hanging in the air. “If my son is threatened again, I’m going to have to do something,” he admits. “I’m either going to have to do as they say or move him somewhere else. I’ve been considering military school because of his behavioral issues. I cannot do it again. I will not let him die.”

More than anything else, I understand this. I understand that feeling, the one that drove me to choose to take bullets for Asriel. “I get it. What do you want me to do?”

“You’re in no position to do anything. Even if you were, I have given you all I know. I don’t have more information. I _wish_ I had more, so I could take down the bastards who killed my wife, but I don’t.” Calder pauses, still not looking at me. “I’m not your enemy, Isla. I never was.”

I know that, even though I want to hold a grudge at him for outing my trauma before I told my friends and family. “You were right to call me out,” I say after a moment. “You saw it before anyone else did. I became what I hated. I became violent to counter all the violence. Frisk was the one who fired me. They made the decision on their own and they were right.”

“It was a long time coming. You are good at many, many things. Politics is not one of those things.” Before I can glower at him for that, he changes the topic. “Are you going to get a new knee?”

I don’t want to talk about this with him. “I don’t know.”

“You should. You’re too damn young to be moving the way you are. It’s pitiful.”

This annoys me, but he’s right, so I really have no business being annoyed. He’s almost fifty, he has seventeen years on me, and we look about the same age. He has less grey in his hair than I do, though to be fair, he’s blond, so his greys aren’t as visibly apparent as mine. He’s got some in his beard, though. Probably stopped shaving so often after his wife died.

“I can’t think of a covert way for you to feed us information,” I say. “Everything can be hacked. You could slip Frisk another note.”

“If I can and it seems pertinent, I will. First and foremost, I’m going to protect my family. You should focus on protecting yours. People have tried to kill you and they will try again.”

“Figured that out when I was shot a twelfth time.” Because the thirteenth time was my fault.

I plant my cane and shift my weight to my right leg to stand. My cane promptly slides across some formerly snow-covered ice. Calder grabs me before I can fall and carefully helps me get my feet back under myself.

I want to hate him for this but that would be exceedingly immature. “Thank you.” The quads muscles of my right leg are not working. Excellent. “I need help getting inside. Cold made my muscles cramp.” It made the scar tissue in my leg contract, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Get the damn knee replacement,” he says, but offers me an arm anyway. I take it and we move slowly. I use my cane to test for ice before putting my weight on it. Fuck, the media would be all over this if someone were to get a picture. They’d undoubtedly make it sound sexual. I’ve gotten laid a lot more in the tabloids than I have in real life.

Once I establish an acceptable pace, Calder says, “Earlier this week, I stopped by the laboratory. Your partner scanned my soul.”

I wait for him to tell me, but he doesn’t. “What was your color?”

He smirks and says, “Guess.”

 

* * *

 

When I get home, Papyrus pulls me aside to ask for support because he wants to talk to Sans, and, well, Sans can be unresponsive when he senses the topic is about to breach something serious. Oftentimes he will shut down and pretend everything is okay when it clearly isn’t.

Papyrus doesn’t hesitate in waking him up from his nap. “Hey, Paps,” he mumbles. “Isla, you’re home.”

“I just got home,” I tell him. I sit on the couch next to him when he sits up. “Papyrus wanted to talk to you.”

Sans gives me a sharp look because he knows this isn’t going to be a casual conversation, but the grin is back on his face in under a second. Papyrus only wrings his hands for a moment. “Sans, are you mad at Dad?” he asks.

The grin shrinks a little. “Mad? Nah, Paps. I ain’t mad.”

“Well, it seems to me as though you aren’t around when he is,” Papyrus says. “In fact, it seems to me as though you go out of your way to be gone when he’s here. He gets home around the same time every night, and often you aren’t here!”

Sans waves it off. “Nah, Paps. It just seems like that ‘cause we’re both busy.”

Papyrus crosses his arms. “ _You_ are currently not so busy because you are on winter break!! Sans, where are you going to be between ten-thirty and eleven tonight!?”

Oh, he’s sweating now. “W-well, Tori said she was gonna do some baking this evening, so I thought I’d get my pieorities straight and head over for a bit—”

“ _See_ , Sans!? You know that’s when Dad usually gets home!!”

Papyrus… tends to be intense in everything he does. Sans doesn’t do intense. Sans doesn’t have the energy for intense. Papyrus seems to be the singular exception to that rule, but much of the time, Sans simply cannot keep up with him.

“Sans,” I say. “Talk to him. He already knows most of it.”

Papyrus stands there for a moment, arms crossed and frowning, and then realization crosses his face. He crouches down in front of Sans. “Sans, I am not angry with you. I am sorry if I seemed… accusatory. I simply want to know what is going on.”

Sans looks at me and I nod. He turns back to Papyrus, not grinning at all now. “Look, Paps, it’s… really not a big deal, I promise.”

“How you feel is a big deal,” Papyrus replies. “I know… sometimes you don’t want to tell me when you’re feeling bad, or what’s making you feel that way. I understand! I try very hard to see on the bright side of things and you are worried that talking about bad feelings might stop me from doing that. But it won’t! See, the world would be a much better place if more people focused on the good, so I must be a great example so others can choose to be just a little more optimistic!! But… talking about it when you feel bad makes it better, so I _want_ you to talk to me when you’re not feeling the greatest. I will not be disappointed in you. I want to help!!”

Fucking hell, I have no idea what I ever did to deserve Papyrus in my life. He is literally one of the best people I know.

Before my heart can completely and utterly melt, my brain latches onto one of his sentences. He said he has to “try very hard” to be as optimistic as he is. I was assuming a good portion of that came naturally, but if he has to try that much that just makes him even better.

I reach out with one of my hands. Without hesitation, Papyrus takes it between both of his. “The same goes for you,” I tell him. “We don’t want you to feel as though you always have to act happy just because one of us is having a bad day. You’re allowed to have bad days, too. When you feel bad, you don’t have to act as though everything is okay.”

He smiles brilliantly at me. “Thank you, Isla! I will remember that.”

There is a pause in which Sans clears his nonexistent throat. “Okay. I’m… I told you Gaster was kinda a workaholic when we were younger, Pap. I’m just… expectin’ more of the same. Figure it doesn’t matter if I’m not home because eventually he’ll almost never be home.”

Papyrus stares at his brother for a moment and then nods. “I understand. We will talk about this with Dad when he gets home.”

Sans, of course, looks unexcited about this prospect. “I don’t think—”

“Well, I _do_ think. And I will be right here supporting you.” He reaches out and puts his hands on Sans’s shoulders. “When we were younger, you were always supporting me. You did a very good job! I would not be as great as I am now if you did not do such a good job!! But it’s my turn now, so I will support you!!!”

No way anyone with a smidgen of a soul can say no to that. Sans sighs, then says, “Of course, Paps. You’re the best.”

“I know!” Papyrus promptly wedges himself between Sans and me. “Let’s watch a movie!!”

I put on something mind-numbing. Gaster gets home just after eleven and is surprised to see that we are all awake and downstairs. Papyrus, who was nodding off, immediately lurches to his feet. “HELLO, DAD!! How was your day!?!?”

“It was good,” Gaster replies. He is confused, so he looks at me. Huh. He thinks he’s most likely to get answers from me. “I presumed everyone would be in bed by now.”

“We stayed up so we could talk to you,” Papyrus says brightly. He marches over to his father and seizes his wrist. “Come sit down!”

He puts Gaster in the therapy chair and comes to stand next to me. Gaster and Sans are wearing precisely the same slightly panicked look. Papyrus took their father’s height and build, but Sans looks more like him in the face.

Papyrus glances back and forth between his father and brother for five seconds. There are many things that make Papyrus amazing, but he is not patient. “You have been finding lots of things to do, Dad,” he says. “We are happy you are enjoying the city!! But we would like you to be at home more often!!”

Gaster’s gaze slides to Sans. “Really?”

Papyrus opens his mouth to speak again, so I touch his wrist and cock my head at Sans. He nods and doesn’t speak, but he begins to fidget after a few seconds. Picatso trots down the stairs, presumably to see why we’re not in bed yet. He winds between Papyrus’s legs, so Papyrus scoops him up.

“Sans?” Gaster says. “What is it?”

There is a pause, and then Sans finally says, “Here’s the thing, Dad. I don’t wanna do it again. I don’t wanna do the waiting for you to get home and the making excuses for you to other people because you bailed on whatever we had planned. I don’t wanna watch Paps keep glancin’ at the clock because dinner is getting cold. I don’t have the energy for that shit anymore, so I’m not gonna do it. If you wanna be in this family, it can’t be the same. Something has to change.”

I have to nudge Papyrus again because I can tell he wants to speak in the ensuing silence. He shoots me a vaguely agitated look and compulsively pets Picatso, who is purring loudly.

“I thought… you would all want some space, since you are adults,” Gaster replies at last. “You already have lives and jobs and friends. I did not want to insert myself so suddenly.”

“That ship has sailed, Gaster. You’re either in our lives or you’re not.”

“Yes,” Papyrus adds, tone a touch stern. “We no longer allow Isla to be a workaholic, so you are not allowed either. If you like, I will organize your schedule for you. I am very good at organizing! That way you will not miss anything!!”

“I have always had trouble staying organized,” Gaster says. “I have a tendency to become lost in whatever I am doing. I am sorry that I have caused such distress. If – if you would not mind, Papyrus, I would appreciate the assistance.”

Papyrus beams. “I would be happy to help!!”

“You will eventually need something to do,” I say. “You’ve been at the lab a lot. Have you found anything there that appeals to you?”

“Other than the interracial conception project, not really,” Gaster answers immediately. “Souls are interesting, but Alphys has that covered, and her knowledge base on the topic has already surpassed mine.” Hesitantly, he adds, “I was actually hoping if I could see what projects you’ve worked on at the college, Sans.”

Sans waits a beat to reply, but his perpetual grin is already starting to sneak back onto his face. “Sure thing. Lately we’ve been workin’ on a project to see how different fluids react to space magic. Maybe we can go in tomorrow to see it.”

“I would like that. Would this be because humans have had adverse reactions to space magic? They are mostly fluid.”

“I can attest to temporary nausea and dizziness,” I say, standing up. “Papyrus, could you help me up the stairs? I would like to go to bed. Sans, take your time.”

“I’ll be quiet when I come in,” Sans replies before turning back to his father. “We’re kinda starting with the basics, since space magic has mostly been used to transport, y’know, other magic. Sure, I’ve teleported humans, but never more than two at a time. Gotta wonder how it’s actually affecting that much physical mass.”

Picatso leaps from Papyrus’s arms to the couch and curls up on Sans’s lap. Papyrus holds his arm out so I can put a little of my weight on it. When we reach the bottom of the stairs, he whispers loudly, “Thank you for your help.”

I smile at him. “I almost didn’t need to do anything. You were great, Papyrus.”


	16. Surprise: an emotion caused by a sudden unexpected or astonishing event.

Asriel turns sixteen in January and has to take his test to obtain a driver’s license. Frisk was not nervous about their test at all, but Asriel is and requires some time with Isla beforehand.

He passes. It’s honestly a relief to Asgore. When none of his children could drive, there were occasional moments of frantic coordinating between him and Toriel and their friends so they could figure out how to get the children where they needed to be. Now Frisk and Asriel can drive themselves. Chara rarely makes an effort to go anywhere when they know Frisk or Asriel will not also be present, so they do not require much carting around either.

Asgore buys a used vehicle off one of the other groundskeepers for his son. It’s older, but it runs well, and it’s bigger than Frisk’s car because Asriel is going to keep growing for some time. He figures it is better for his children to have older vehicles until they obtain more experience driving.

Thus far, nobody has said anything to him or Toriel about… anything they have chosen not to tell anyone else. He is certainly less nervous than he was weeks ago about their new beginning, but the idea of anyone, of _everyone_ finding out… it is anxiety-inducing. Neither of them wants the expectations of other people to color their relationship this early on, while they are still figuring things out, and Asgore is certain there would be a _lot_ of expectations. He has a lot of expectations after their centuries-long marriage and dead children and century-long separation and then the Surfacing.

Over the next few weeks, Asgore makes time so he can speak to Gaster. Their interactions feel strange to him. There is a familiarity and Asgore is sure he knows certain things about the other monster, like that Gaster has a preference for spicy foods and would rather sleep during the morning so he can stay up late, without Gaster having told him any of these things. Well, perhaps he did tell Asgore and Asgore simply forgot when Gaster’s experimentation went awry. That is a possibility.

During long days at the Embassy, Asgore tells himself that Frisk and Asriel just need a few more years before they can take over his duties. Then he can spend his time tending to the gardens here and at the park and the school. He will be close by so his children can consult him if they must, but he cannot wait to come home from his work with soil in his fur and a song stuck in his head.

Instead, he comes home tired from phone calls and paperwork and meetings and conversations that often come very close to going over his head. Whenever economics comes up, he usually has to pull Toriel in. She is better at understanding anything that has to do with numbers. If he’d had to undergo the same schooling his children do – gosh, he would have struggled hard with math.

He is not so tired, however, that he does not react when Toriel grins at him and tells him that perhaps he should get comfortable in bed – after all, their children are at Kalene Dyre’s and they have the house to themselves. He practically runs upstairs.

It is amazing how much his body remembers even though his head could not remember when he tried to think of it. It is amazing how well they fit together after all these years even as they easily take into account things like how his lower back starts to hurt if he lies face-up for too long, or how she managed to pull a muscle in her neck while she was baking enough food to feed a hundred people, or how she remembers that spot that makes him toss his head and nearly crack the headboard with his horns, or—

Or how that is definitely the front door opening, that is definitely the muffled voices of their children, that is definitely Asriel yelling for them—

In his hurry to get dressed, Asgore’s back begins to hurt. He looks at Toriel only to see her make a face as she pauses to rub the back of her neck.

She looks at him, and when they make eye contact, he starts to chuckle. She cracks and laughs, too. When they were younger, they were able to roll out of bed, throw their clothes on, and dash off to do whatever was required of them. Clearly they are not so young now.

“I believe some tea is in order, Gorey,” she sighs. She adjusts her clothes, walks over to the door, and opens it. “Be down in a minute,” she calls to the kids.

Of course, it must have taken their children all of ten seconds to figure it out. When they come down the stairs, they are lined up, waiting for them.

Kalene Dyre is with them and she can read the expressions of her friends and how they are looking at their parents. “I’ll go set the console up,” she says quickly, and disappears down the hallway to the room that used to host a lot of toys and now has large numbers of movies, video games, books, and a single large television.

Asriel looks a little confused and highly suspicious. “Were you two… upstairs together?” he asks.

Chara one-ups him by asking, “Were you having sex?” in a semi-accusatory tone.

“Kitchen, please,” Toriel says. “I have… pulled a muscle.”

They begin to move as a group. “Would you mind making the tea, my child?” Asgore asks Chara. “I – er, I seem to have strained my back in the garden.”

“Dad, it’s winter,” Asriel points out. “And you’re a horrible liar.”

Asgore lowers himself into a chair at the table. Toriel is doing the same next to him. Frisk and Asriel sit opposite them and Chara begins making tea.

Frisk eyes how slowly their parents are moving, grinning cheekily. “Was it good sex? Worth the injuries?”

“Frisk!” Asriel bleats. “Gross!”

Oh, dear. “Your father and I have decided to try this again,” Toriel says. “We have been seeing one another romantically for about three months.”

He knows she only said it so immediately to deter Frisk from making more sex jokes, but to be telling people – even their own children – makes him simultaneously giddy and nervous.

There is a pause. “Well… is it working?” Asriel asks. “The romance, not… whatever you were doing upstairs.”

Asgore feels as though he can answer this for the both of them. “It is. We are… cautious, so we are trying to take it slowly. The romance, not the…” he coughs. “We are figuring out how to be together again.”

“And we would appreciate it if you did not tell anyone yet. We would like to tell people ourselves,” Toriel adds.

“Oh,” Asriel murmurs. “We’ll have to talk to Lena. I mean, you two were so _obvious_.”

He sounds vaguely disgusted. Asgore finds himself embarrassed, but these are his children. He does not want to set a bad example. If his kids want to talk to him about sex, he wants them to feel like they can come to him, so he needs to be able to talk about it now. “I think Isla knows,” he confesses. “I did not tell her, but… I think she knows.”

“Well, we’re happy for you,” Frisk says, smiling. Asriel is nodding, too. “We want you to do what makes _you_ happy. If you want to try this, you have our support.”

Toriel returns their smile. “Thank you, my children.”

Chara comes over with the tea. “Frisk is right, we’re very happy for you,” they say sweetly. “And since you’re going to keep having sex, know that we never want to hear it or the panicked hide-the-evidence aftermath ever again.”

 

* * *

 

In March, I take Chara to their six-month follow-up appointment because Asgore and Toriel are busy. They had a repeat MRI done a couple of days ago. Their doctor tells them everything looks good and even gives them the paperwork they need to fill out so they can get copies of the MRI because he knows they will want copies. He wishes them luck and jokingly tells them he hopes he never sees them in clinic again.

I take them to Grillby’s afterwards. When it’s just us, people don’t recognize us quite as easily as they do if I’m with Sans or if they are with Frisk and Asriel or their parents. They definitely look enough like me and I look old enough that I could pass as their bio-mom. It wouldn’t be fun for them if we played that card, but it’s good to know it’s there if we need it.

“That surgeon’s nice,” I tell them. “If you ever have problems again, go back to him.”

“I know,” they reply. “I actually like him. I can’t figure out why.”

“He has good bedside manner. And he talked to you, even though I was your designated adult.” Even though if we were to stand up, they would have an inch on me now. They’re catching up to Frisk.

“Maybe he can do you,” they say, “when you finally decide to get your knee replaced.”

I’m not feeling this topic. “He’s a colorectal surgeon. He doesn’t do orthopedics.”

They flick a fry at me. “Then find someone who does. Remember that lecture you gave me when I didn’t want to have surgery?”

“You could have gotten emergently ill without surgery. My condition isn’t going to change.”

“Your quality of life might change.” Chara stabs a fry into their ketchup. “Don’t even try to tell me that’s not worth it.”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

“You are probably _making_ it more complicated. Sans told me you always dither when it comes to your own medical care.”

This shouldn’t surprise me, but it does. A little. I sigh. “Chara, I lived in a hospital for months after I was shot. It was horrible. And I’ve been hospitalized over a dozen times since then. If I don’t _have_ to, I’m probably going to avoid it.”

“I understand that. But you should still do it. How are you going to keep up in ten years when Asriel has kids and he asks you to babysit?”

I raise an eyebrow. That was a bit of a leap. “Has Asriel talked to you about wanting kids?”

“No. I’m not sure if he’s realized it yet, but it’s obvious, right? He always wants to hold your sister’s baby. He’s in some volunteer group at the school that goes and reads to the younger kids on Fridays and he always comes home gushing about it. And…” here they begin to look uncomfortable, “he _has_ to have biological children if he’s going to age. That… I know Mom and Dad are worried about that, too. If he doesn’t have children, he’s going to outlive everybody.”

Asgore once expressed that worry to me, but Asriel has never brought it up. “It’s kind of early to be worried about that,” I say carefully. “He’s only sixteen, Chara. He has plenty of time to decide whether he wants children and how to go about having them.” Not sure if monsters can do anything like surrogacy or in vitro. I doubt it, since the focus of the interracial conception project has been natural pregnancies. I’ll have to ask. Gaster will probably know. “Is there any reason why you’re bringing this up?”

I have a suspicion, but right now it’s a baseless suspicion because I have no evidence for it. Chara frowns at me. “No, and it definitely _wasn’t_ so you could change the subject. We were talking about your knee.”

Sometimes I hate how damn smart this kid is. “Now it sounds like you’re trying to change the subject.”

They poke their burger with a fry, frowning. “I just – think it sucks that you’re thirty-two and you already have a shitty leg. I know the rest of your joints are sometimes shitty, too, but at least they can have good days. It makes you seem so old, when you’re not. It… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”

I think I do, though. “It’s okay. I’ll… think about having the replacement. It really is more complicated for me because of my medical history, but I’ll think about it.” I watch as they swipe some ketchup from my plate to finish off their fries. “I love you.”

Their face promptly turns the same color as the ketchup. They mumble, “I love you, too,” and begin embarrassedly snarfing their burger so they don’t have to say anything else.

 

* * *

 

Because it is the end of Frisk and Asriel’s senior year, it flies by.

Toriel and Asgore choose to out themselves to the public a week after they do so to their friends. Asgore was right, Isla figured it out already, but she knew to keep her mouth shut. Undyne, predictably, shrieks something about the strength of love and nearly suplexes Asgore when she hugs him. Sans has been in a good mood these last couple of weeks. He tells Toriel his father has joined a research project at the college and they have lunch there twice a week.

Toriel is happy for him. She is also happy for Isla when she says she’s going to start looking for an orthopedic surgeon so she can get a consultation about her knee. She is happy for Gaster because he sounds as though he is positively ecstatic about his new job, even though she barely understands a word of what he says when he describes it. She is happy for Alphys – for their people, really – when Alphys reveals they are going to start testing medication on human-monster couples trying for children to see if they can medically sustain an interracial pregnancy.

She needs happy things right now. Two of her babies are off to college this August.

She knows she should not be making such a fuss. They are going to be living here for at least another two years, because Chara’s education is going to take at least that long before they can test for their GED. They are still going to split their time between school and home and the Embassy. She is still going to get to cook them dinner and tell them goodnight when it is bedtime.

But her children are growing up. In April, when she is helping Frisk sort their things, she finds an old sweater at the back of their closet that looks too small for Chara, let alone Frisk, and she abruptly bursts into tears.

Of course, Frisk is wonderful and understands why she’s crying over a small ratty sweater, but she does it _again_ after she buys Asriel a new backpack because his current one has a broken zipper and a frayed hole in the bottom where a pencil poked through. The old one is striped in green and yellow and pink, but the new one is a solid dark blue Asriel says he likes. It certainly looks less like a child’s backpack than the old one when he tries it on to make sure it can accommodate some growing.

Asgore is not immune either, though the big doofus has always been a bigger crier than Toriel. He says that he about lost it looking over freshman classes with their children and had to defer the task to Isla and Sans. Sans jokingly asks them when they are going to take physics, even though it is likely neither of their majors will require it. Frisk promises to take it at some point and Asriel points out that the school probably wouldn’t (and, honestly, should not) allow Sans to grade either of them.

Frisk is invited to a conference the weekend of senior prom, which is a shame, but Toriel is aware neither of her children were particularly excited about it in the first place. They were going to go together, but Toriel pushes Asriel to go anyway. He resists until Chara tells him to take Kalene, who needs to be distracted from her father’s most recent brief hospitalization.

It comes far too quickly. It is April, then May, then June and it is the last week of class. Graduation takes place the weekend after.

Neither Frisk nor Asriel is giving a speech. They never let their grades slip, but they have both had plenty to deal with outside of school and do not have the highest grade point averages in their class. Neither of them seems to mind. Frisk gives plenty of speeches as is and out of her three children, Toriel always had to redirect Asriel’s attention back to his homework the most. If he could get away with doing less homework, that was precisely what he did.

Graduation takes place in the city park. The school has a committee for this. Toriel served on it in the past, but two of her teachers told her to take a break this year so she can just sit and watch her children graduate. Every year – provided the weather cooperates – they set up tiered seating for the audience on either side of the benches they put together for the students. They leave a space in the middle so the students can walk and someone has decorated the ends of the benches with beautiful flowers. A stage goes up, and normally that is where Toriel would be, but she is glad to be in the audience this time. She gets to be with Asgore. They have both shed so many tears over this and she fully expects to shed a few more during the ceremony.

Sans comes early, for once, with his family. He and Gaster teleport them in, which seems to be necessary because Isla looks as though she is moving stiffly, one hand on her cane and the other on Papyrus’s arm.

Toriel is glad she and Asgore chose to sit in the second row. The less climbing Isla has to do today, the better. “Bad joint day?” she murmurs to Sans when he approaches.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “It’s okay, though. She would only miss this if she started pukin’ blood.”

Chara overhears and fixes Sans with a stare. “That was a terrible joke,” they inform him. “Maybe you’re just not funny.”

Sans only chuckles. “Maybe you woke up without a sense of humor today, helldemon.”

“Maybe your sense of humor is objectively shitty,” Chara shoots back.

“Chara, language,” Toriel admonishes, and simultaneously, Gaster says, “Don’t swear at the Royal Children, Sans, it’s inappropriate.”

Sans’s face goes blue and Chara grins at Gaster. “I am very glad you decided to come today, Doctor Gaster,” they say cheerily. “Frisk and Asriel will be just _delighted_ to see you here.”

“Oh, I couldn’t miss this,” Gaster replies, sitting down on Asgore’s other side. “This is a very important moment for the monster community as well as for your family. I would have been remiss had I chosen not to bear witness.”

Toriel turns her attention to Isla, whom Papyrus has gotten seated in front of her. When he thinks nobody’s looking, Sans flicks the back of Chara’s head and they shoot him a dirty look. “How are you feeling today?” she asks Isla.

“I’m fine,” she answers. “I’m not in that much pain, but my right hip decided to be swollen and stiff, so I currently have two legs that don’t work correctly. It looks a lot worse than it feels.”

“That is good to hear.”

“How are Frisk and Asriel holding up? Asriel didn’t even bring this up the other day.”

“I do not believe either of them is terribly nervous. They have both been in front of much bigger crowds, after all. And it is not as if this ceremony is focused on them. They will both have their names read, they will receive their diplomas, and that will be the end of the individual attention.”

When Undyne and Alphys arrive, Chara moves so they can talk with them. Asgore shifts closer to Toriel, his hand brushing hers on the bench. She hopes the human journalists stay away. She and Asgore have not really been out together since they announced their reunion. The last thing they need is an overenthusiastic human – or group of them – showing up so they can snap photographs of the king and queen. This is about the students, not old folks who no longer know how to date and only know how to act as though they are already married.

The seating slowly fills up. Kalene and Ezra show up and Toriel frowns because Ezra looks as though he has lost weight. She should invite them over for dinner more often.

The weather is perfect for this. It is sunny and warm, but not so hot that the students will be miserable in their graduation caps and gowns. Mettaton gives a short speech about how all of them have the opportunity to follow their dreams and proceeds to read off the names of each student so they can come forward and receive their diploma.

Toriel thought she would cry, but… perhaps she is simply cried out. Instead she cannot keep the smile off her face. She removes her camera from its protective bag and leans towards Asgore. They have not really talked about this. “Do you think we should remarry?” she murmurs to him.

He turns to her, blinking. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me correctly.”

“Oh.” He briefly glances back at the stage. “I honestly have not given that much thought, but… yes, I would like that. Would you?”

“I have not thought much about it either. I do not suppose much would change. We have been acting as though we are married for some time.”

“Then perhaps we should make it official.”

She prepares her camera. “Perhaps we should. It does not need to be a large affair.”

He nods. “You are right. We could have a short ceremony with just our family. We could throw a party afterwards. We could do it just before the children start school in August.”

This gets her attention. “That soon?”

“Why not? If it is small, it will not require much planning or preparation. If we do it before school begins, the children and Sans will not be as busy.”

Mettaton calls Asriel’s name, then Frisk’s. Toriel focuses on taking pictures even as Undyne yells encouragement at the both of them. Oh well. Now that Undyne has embarrassed both of her children, Toriel does not have to. “That sounds like a good plan, Gorey,” she says. “I think I would like to do it in our backyard so we can take pictures in front of that bed of lavender you put in this year. I know it is not as impressive as the gardens you keep here, or at the Embassy, but… I think I would like to have it at home just the same.”

He smiles at her. “That sounds like a wonderful idea, Tori.”

She prepares her camera again when the students get ready to throw their caps in the air. She gets a few good candid shots of Frisk and Asriel and even one of Undyne and Chara when Undyne lifts them overhead in excitement. Everyone breaks into applause. Papyrus whoops, standing, which prompts everyone else to stand as well.

Isla does not, which Toriel expected because of her joints – but Sans does not, either. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. Toriel takes a closer look and realizes that they are both crying, then exchanges a shocked looked with Asgore.

Before the applause dies down completely, the students reclaim their caps. Asriel does not sit down again with his classmates. Instead, he steps out into the middle path, runs around the benches, and does not stop until he reaches them. He scoops Isla up, arms tucked under her knees and back, and lifts her so she can wrap hers around his neck. She was silent before, but this makes her start sobbing in earnest. Naturally, Asriel starts crying too.

Frisk is right behind Asriel. They sit down in Isla’s now-empty seat next to Sans, wrapping an arm around him. Toriel catches a muttered, “Didn’t expect to ever see you so old, kiddo,” before he falls into them, hiding his face in their shoulder.

The superintendent was preparing to do closing remarks, but instead he smiles and says into the microphone, “What are you waiting for? Go see your families,” which prompts the students to scatter to the stands. The noise level rises, so Chara climbs back up to sit between their parents. Asgore strokes their head, getting their attention. “You know how your mother and I have been bursting into tears at the drop of a hat?”

“Yeah,” Chara replies. “It was a little ridiculous.”

“I think it is hitting Isla and Sans all at once,” Toriel says. “It is likely they did not anticipate this. We must be prepared to tease them for it.”

Asgore chuckles. “Wow, Mom,” Chara says, deadpan. “Nobody is allowed to do this when I get my GED. Fortunately, it lacks an official graduation.”

“We will have to throw you a party instead,” Toriel tells them. “I can embarrass you then.”

“Mom,” Chara complains. Toriel can only let out a peal of laughter. She grins at Asgore over Chara’s head and takes his hand behind their back.

 

* * *

 

After graduation, all of her children throw themselves into preparation for Surface Day. Frisk usually gives a small speech. Asriel and Chara are more interested in the annual water fight.

The morning of, Toriel goes to the memorial greenhouse and stays there for a few hours. After Asgore showed her how, she began layering her own magic into this place. Carefully, because she will not pretend she is even half as competent with plants as Asgore. She can do simple things, like cast her intent about this place, her desire for these flowers to bloom and stay healthy, but she should leave the details to him.

She skips the water fight and instead commandeers Sans and Gaster’s assistance in transporting the food she made to the following picnic. They can teleport, which makes it easier to get the four dishes and eight pies she made to the tables that have been set up. Other people begin to trickle in with food, some of them wet from the water fight, some of them not. Sans disappears for ten minutes and returns with his brother, Isla, a large pot of chili that Papyrus is carrying, and a quiche. As soon as Ezra and Kalene show up, Toriel attempts to get Ezra to try six of her varying pies – he eats slices from three, which she considers a job well done.

When Shannon and Zachary arrive, Asriel once again takes over holding Saoirse, but the child squirms and crawls around on the blankets when he puts her down. She babbles constantly now and has a head full of fiery red hair.

Eventually, though, she tires, and falls asleep on Alphys, who couldn’t be happier – and more nervous – with this arrangement. “I h-haven’t been around infants very much,” she admits. “Not even monster infants. But this is nice. Unexpectedly nice.”

“Ehh, babies are boring,” Undyne says. “They mostly just sleep and cry and eat. When they get older and they can run around and play – _that’s_ when they get fun!”

Shannon points at Undyne with a half-eaten ear of corn. “Correct. That is the objectively correct response.”

“So our kid is boring?” Zachary asks her.

“She’ll be boring until she can actually do stuff.” Shannon smacks her partner’s hand with a spoon when he reaches for the cookie on her plate. “Our kid will be incapable of being boring, I’m her mother.”

“But there’s nothing like when a baby falls asleep on you,” Asriel says. “It’s one of the best feelings _ever_.”

If she is ever going to have grandbabies, it will probably be from him. Frisk has never said anything about desiring children of their own and they have always been generally uninterested in children who are not close to their own age. Chara has said outright they do not want kids and Toriel doubts that will change. Having children would allow Asriel to continue aging, but that should not be an issue for two or three decades, so she puts it out of her mind so she can enjoy this beautiful day with her family.

The next afternoon, Toriel heads to the Embassy with Frisk. She would have preferred them to stay home and be lazy for a day with Asriel and Chara, but the receptionist called their phone to tell them they have a visitor. Toriel made lunch for Asgore and wants to bring it to him, so she offers to run them in.

They go in the east entrance so Toriel can drop off lunch with Asgore. From there, they head to the lobby.

“I will be in one of the greenhouses out back,” she tells them. “Take as long as you need. When you are finished, send me a text and I will come to you.”

“Okay,” Frisk replies. “I assume you’re going to the one Dad has spent years working on. You’ll have to show me sometime.”

“I will have to talk to your father first, but I do not expect him to protest.” She considers. Frisk and Chara were also fallen humans and Asriel spent some time with the souls of the other six within him. “Do you believe Asriel and Chara might like to see it as well?”

“My guess would be yes, but I’ll ask them.”

They have almost reached the receptionist’s desk. There is a human sitting in the nearby waiting area whom Toriel does not recognize. He is male with dark hair and the receptionist signals to him when they notice Toriel and Frisk. They smile and wave and Frisk smiles and waves back. The human stands.

Frisk freezes midstep, one hand still in the air. Toriel pauses, turning to them.

It happens within the span of a few seconds. The man turns his head. Frisk’s eyes go wide and their skin takes a greenish-grey tone. They begin to shake. They emit a choked-off noise.

They stumble backwards, regain their footing, and sprint out of the lobby in the direction of the gardens.

Toriel is confused for a moment. The man barely has time to smile nervously, but it drops off his face as soon as Frisk runs.

Then she notices a few things: the color of Frisk’s eyes, the slope of their nose, the shape of their ears. All in this man.

There are only two humans on this planet whose mere presence could make Frisk react like that. She knows who he is.


	17. Forgiveness: to voluntarily cease to feel resentment towards a transgressor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TAGS YO. Shit gets Heavy.

She stopped the car. Right outside their door was a little shelter of some sort. There was a bench under a roof. Behind it was a field of bright golden flowers in full bloom.

There was a _click_. Her lighter. She lit her cigarette, inhaled on the end, exhaled the smoke. “Get out of the car.”

They blinked, confused. Weren’t they going to their new home? New home, new life. Without that shitty father of yours, she’d said. Did she like the flowers? Maybe she wanted them to pick her a bouquet. Maybe that would make her happy for a little while. Or at least not angry.

They were confused, but they knew better than to disobey. They opened the door and stepped out of the car.

“Shut the door and go sit on that bench,” she said.

Their heart began to pound and dread welled up in them. They opened their mouth. Talking had not been easy lately, but she was on the other side of the car and she still had her seatbelt on so it wasn’t like she could reach them, if she didn’t like what they had to say. “You’ll – come get me?” they squeaked out. They heard themself and immediately knew they had said it wrong, that was pathetic, she hated them the least when they were calm, silent, and obedient, she never liked it when they were scared or sad, she—

She exhaled again. “Yeah. Sure. Just sit down.”

Her voice was monotonous, bored. They scratched at the gooey bandage on their jaw and nervously looked around. There was a town farther down along the road. It didn’t look very big. Maybe she was going there? Maybe she needed to pick something up, and she’d come back when she dropped a few things off at their new home and had more room in the car?

They bit their lip, closed the door, and backed up towards the bench.

Before they could sit down, she was driving away from them. In the direction opposite of the town. In that direction, the road went through fields on one side and trees on the other. And the mountain looming behind them.

They sat down. They were shaking. She would come back. She had to come back.

But hadn’t they thought the same thing about him? He had not come back. Maybe she wouldn’t either.

Maybe this was another test. Maybe she would come back to check if they were sitting quietly on the bench like they were supposed to. Like she ordered them. Her car was out of sight, maybe they could get up and walk around until she came back. They could look at those flowers, see if they smelled good, see if the petals were soft.

But what if she came back and they weren’t on the bench? They touched the bandage on their cheek. She hadn’t meant to catch their skin with one of her nails. She hadn’t meant to.

She meant to slap them, but they deserved it, anyway. Right?

What if she didn’t come back?

They would go see the flowers. It would only take a few minutes. They would be back on the bench in no time.

They stood up, constantly glancing down the road in the direction she’d driven. They moved nervously around the shelter. Wasn’t there a haunted mountain about an hour from where they had lived? It had taken about an hour to get here. Was this that mountain?

They turned to look at the mountain and the field of golden flowers swaying in the summer breeze. Their feelings of uncertainty melted away. None of that mattered anymore.

They were going to climb this mountain. They could feel it. It was almost calling to them. Frisk was home.

 

* * *

 

Asgore had no idea what to expect when Toriel called him into the lobby, but it was not this.

Her explanation barely took five seconds, but it was enough. The human with whom he is standing is Frisk’s birth father. Frisk fled when they saw him, so Toriel chased them.

He can see the resemblance. This human’s skin is one or two shades darker than Frisk’s. His hair is the same color as Frisk’s, but while theirs is pin-straight, his is tightly curled and cropped short. He is, as far as Asgore can tell, close to average height and weight for an adult human man.

It is… strange. When Toriel whispered the words “birth father” Asgore could have shot a fireball at this human. He could have run him through with his trident. Then, as he was trying to get his anger under control, he noticed the human looked _scared_. Why would he be afraid if he were here to do Frisk more harm? Why would he come here at all?

Now, as he slowly approaches the human, he is not sure of what to do. He will wait for Toriel. She will know.

“Howdy,” Asgore greets, at a loss.

The human’s entire body is tense. “Coming here was a mistake,” he blurts suddenly. “I should just—”

Is this human ignorant of the fact that monsters are weak when faced with harmful intent? Is that why he is so scared? Or… is he scared of talking to Frisk? “Please stay,” Asgore says. “At – at least until my – until Toriel returns.” He scratches the base of his left horn. “I apologize. I am unsure of how to proceed.”

Anger lances through him again – why is he apologizing to one of Frisk’s abusers? But he cannot succumb. The last time he allowed his rage to overtake him, he declared a war from which there was no backing down. He has to wait for Toriel. She will know what to do.

But how long before she returns? He decides to text Isla. Perhaps, if Toriel returns with Frisk, Isla can mediate.

The silence is awkward. The receptionist glances at Asgore once, expression telling him they are prepared to offer assistance should he ask, but Asgore waves them off. There is nothing they can do to help.

Asgore clears his throat. “So, human… what is your name?”

“U-um,” the human stutters. He seems to be taken aback. “Ulric Emerson.”

“I am Asgore Dreemurr. It’s nice to meet you.”

Oh, gosh. He should not have said that, because it is not exactly nice to meet this man, but the response is reflexive.

He appears to have stunned the human into speechlessness. That is… probably for the best. He does not know what else to say. He has a few things he would _like_ to say, about how long it took before Frisk was not afraid of every human adult they met, about their nonverbal episodes and their abandonment issues, about how they still cannot talk about their birth parents. Something in him is howling for this human’s pain as repayment for Frisk’s suffering, but he recognizes this feeling. He cannot cave into it again.

It does not take long for Isla to arrive. When she sees Ulric, her eyes narrow to slits. Her fingers twitch on her cane. If she pulls the shiv, he has to stop her, but he hopes she won’t. She was supposed to be working on that.

She stops precisely four feet away from Frisk’s birth father. “My name is Isla Reilly.” Her voice is much, much calmer than he was expecting. “I’m Frisk’s therapist. What is your name?”

“Um,” he says. “Ulric Emerson. I… I know who you are. I know who all of you are. I’ve been following, um, all the stories. Since I recognized Frisk in a picture.”

He used Frisk’s chosen name. Asgore is not sure what to make of this.

“Which was when?” Isla asks.

His gaze flicks between her and Asgore. “Maybe two weeks after the Surfacing.”

“You recognized them, knew where they were, did not contest the termination of your parental rights, and waited until now to come to them. Why?”

Her voice keeps that calm, soft tone she uses with patients and always failed to appropriate into politics. Ulric blinks rapidly and swallows once. “I… wanted to apologize.”

 

* * *

 

Toriel chases them into the gardens. She finds them crouched between a raspberry bush and the side of a greenhouse, hyperventilating and sobbing.

“Sorry,” they blubber. “Sorry, I’ll be quiet, I’m sorry—”

Her soul could shatter for them. “Frisk, you have nothing to be sorry for,” she tells them, kneeling in the grass. “You have done nothing wrong, my dear child. You are safe with us. We will not let anyone hurt you, I promise.”

They put their hands over their mouth, which effectively silences their whimpering. Toriel raises her hands to them. She waits perhaps thirty seconds before saying, “I love you very much, Frisk. Please come out from behind the raspberries; they have thorns.”

She waits. She does not consider herself a particularly patient person, but she will wait as long as Frisk needs. Finally, they crawl out of their safe space and fall into her arms. It does not matter that they are eighteen or that they nearly never cry. What matters is that they are hurting and vulnerable, and she embraces them as they sob against her shoulder.

After some time, they whimper, “I left Dad alone with him… I’m such a coward.”

She rubs their back. “You are _not_ a coward, Frisk. You… never expected to see him again. Of course having him show up at a place you felt was safe is going to feel violating.”

They let out a small, shuddering sob. “I don’t wanna go back.”

“You do not have to if doing so would overwhelm you, and if it does, it is not a failure of you in any capacity. Your birth parents hurt you terribly, my child. Neither of them deserves a single second of your time, but…” As much as she wishes to hide them away, to protect them, she must consider what will be best for them in the long run, even if it causes short-term pain. “I believe that you should consider speaking with him and at least find out why he is here. You certainly do not have to agree to any requests he makes of you. You do not owe him _anything_. But I fear you will regret it later if you do not speak with him now.”

Frisk has gone quiet, face still buried in her shoulder. She counts to ten, then says, “We may also ask him to wait until you have prepared yourself. I cannot imagine he came here for any reason other than you, so he may be agreeable to that option.”

They finally lean back, tilting their face up to look into her eyes. “I don’t want to,” they repeat, “but I have to. I know that. I just—” they cut themself off with a sob, shoulders trembling under her hands. Fresh tears slide down their cheeks. “I w-want Sans there. J-just… just in case.”

In case they need to run. Toriel agrees with this. It may be necessary to ensure Frisk can escape quickly.

 

* * *

 

Frisk did not exactly exit the lobby discreetly. Everyone else who is present occasionally glances at their little group, expressions a mix of curiosity and wariness.

Asgore is capable of making this simple choice without Toriel. He decides to move them to a private room. He informs one of the receptionists of where they will be so Toriel and Frisk – or just Toriel – can be directed to them. Isla reminds him to choose a room that has security cameras.

Ulric hesitates, too, but decides to come with them. It is a smaller conference room with a long table that can seat up to ten people. “Please, sit down,” Asgore says, and once more he feels a rush of bitterness for his inability to turn the politeness off. If there is anyone who does not deserve it...

Ulric hesitates again, but seats himself in the middle of the table. Asgore sits diagonally from him.

Isla, on the other hand, plants herself right next to him and deliberately leans into his personal space, propping an elbow on the table. “You want to apologize,” she says, and waits for Ulric’s nervous, wide-eyed nod. “Let me tell you how this is going to go. If you are lying about wanting to apologize, I am ending the conversation. If you deliberately upset Frisk, I am ending the conversation. If you misgender or deadname them, I am ending the conversation. If you imply that any of the abuse they endured at the hands of you and their birth mother was their fault, I am ending the conversation. If you touch them, I am ending the conversation. If you are the slightest bit contrary, I am ending the conversation. Be nice to Frisk. I know it’s unlikely you have much experience with that, but don’t you dare doubt that I will intervene if I feel it is necessary. Are we clear?”

Once more, she waits for his nod to lean away from him. His gaze finds a spot on the table and sticks there.

Asgore watches Isla, but she seems calm. She cannot throw the first punch. She knows that. She told him to choose a room with a camera so she can prove she did not throw the first punch should this become physically violent.

A few awkward minutes later, there is a knock on the door. Asgore is surprised when Sans slips into the room. “Heya,” he says. “Frisk invited me to this little shindig. They and Tori are outside.”

“Is Frisk ready?” Isla asks. “If they are not, we can always put him,” here she hooks a thumb at Frisk’s birth father, “in a suite upstairs until they decide they are ready. Or we can send him off if they don’t want to do this. It’s up to them.”

“Yeah, they know,” Sans replies. “They’re not exactly _ready_ , per se, but they’d prefer to do this now. If everything’s ready in here?”

Asgore notices that Sans’s hands appear to be clenched inside his hoodie pockets. His gaze keeps straying to Ulric, who gaped at the skeleton for a few seconds upon his appearance and is again staring at the table.

“We’ve already discussed the rules, so I would hope so,” Isla says. “Do they know I’m here?”

“Dunno.”

“Ask if they want me here. If they don’t, I’ll leave.”

Sans disappears through the door, leaving it cracked. There is murmuring. After it ends, he reenters the room. “We’re good,” he says, and meanders on over to the opposite side of the table. “Mind if I take a seat?” he asks Ulric, and sits on the human’s other side before he can respond. He leans back in his chair, sticking his feet on the table. “Name’s Sans, by the way. Sans the skeleton.”

Ulric stares a beat too long. When he finally goes to reply, Frisk walks into the room, followed closely by Toriel, who closes the door firmly behind her, and Ulric sits up and stares at Frisk instead.

Frisk and Toriel sit such that Frisk is between their parents. Their face is tilted down, eyes shadowed.

The silence stretches, long and tense and suffocating. Finally, Ulric says, “I – went to your speech at Surface Day.” He half-blurts it. “You did a really good job—”

“What do you want from me,” Frisk interrupts. Asgore can see the harshness of their breathing, feel the rapid twitching of their soul. Frisk is usually so, so skilled at sequestering intense emotions behind an expressionless mask. Right now, they are feeling too much to hide it. “I’m eighteen. You can’t take custody of me. Even if I were younger, nobody would let you.”

This appears to surprise Ulric. “I… know. Why do you think I waited until you were eighteen? I didn’t… I never intended to contest the adoption.”

“You waited,” Frisk repeats. Their hands are on the table in front of them; they are running the pads of their thumbs over the nails of their fingers again and again. Sometimes they do that before a speech or an appearance or meeting, if they are nervous, but never this compulsively.

Their birth father seems hesitant to speak. “Well, I… got a notice from the court. That my custody was being revoked. Just that week I saw you on the news. And… it seemed like you wanted to be here. I scoured the internet for any mention of you, I watched videos of all your speeches. I wanted to contact you sooner, but I… wasn’t ready, and I figured you would feel threatened if you were still a minor. I saw how happy you were here and I didn’t want to scare you into thinking I would contest the adoption.”

“Nice of you to finally decide you give a fuck about my happiness,” Frisk intones, flat and almost mean. Asgore exchanges a glance with Toriel and with that, he knows they have simultaneously decided to allow Frisk this. Whatever they are feeling needs to come out. Short of physical violence, they may choose to express themself however they wish.

“Hang on a moment.” Isla’s gaze is narrowed. “What changed? You don’t leave your kid and suddenly decide to give a damn years later. Something changed.”

Ulric can’t take his eyes off Frisk. He has looked utterly terrified since he walked into the Embassy. “I completed a rehabilitation program for alcoholics,” he says. It comes out of him in a rush, like this is what he has been dying to tell Frisk. “After I left your mother. It… took some time, but I haven’t had a drink in almost nine years. Seven years ago I got remarried, and now I have two kids at home, kids I did right by, and I – I feel awful about what – I’m sorry—”

Frisk pounds on the table with both fists and stands up so suddenly their chair tips over. Their fists are clenched and tears are streaming down their face. Asgore begins to stand, too, to either follow or stop them, he isn’t sure. They turn and take two steps towards the door.

And then Sans is in front of them. “Move,” Frisk hisses, and the sound is harsh and ragged, dragged out of them.

“Sure thing,” Sans says easily. “Just answer a question first, kiddo.”

“Sans—” Frisk says warningly.

“I’ll get outta your way when I get an answer. Promise.”

“ _Sans, move—_ ”

“Do you think even the worst person can change…? That everyone can be a good person, if they just try?”

Frisk freezes, the abruptly bursts into full-blown sobbing. They cover their face with their hands and sink to their knees, hunched over.

Asgore does not move, but Toriel takes a step forward. “Toriel,” Isla says. Her voice is quiet but clear, and Toriel stops to look at her. “Wait.”

Frisk lashes out, grabbing Sans around the middle. They cry into his shirt. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and gently strokes their head.

After a moment, Asgore sits back down. Toriel looks back and forth between him and Sans several times before following his lead. She is on the edge of her seat, ready to assist Frisk the second they indicate they need help.

It takes a long time for them to stop. Asgore continually glances at Toriel and Isla in turn, catching their gazes. Toriel fidgets every so often, betraying her desire to act or speak, but Isla only taps her fingers on the table as she waits.

Sans helps Frisk stand. They wait there for a moment, Frisk sniffling and Sans murmuring quietly.

Finally, Frisk turns around. “I would like to speak to Ulric alone.”

There is a heavy pause. “Are you certain, my child?” Toriel asks.

Frisk swallows, staring at the middle of the table, and nods.

“One of us will be watching at all times,” Isla says. “We will be there in a heartbeat if you call for help.”

Asgore looks at Sans. The skeleton catches Asgore’s eye, slides his hands into his pockets, and nods.

Frisk focuses on their birth father. “Let’s take a walk,” they say.

 

* * *

 

He isn’t that big. Five-ten, maybe, only two inches taller than Frisk. In Frisk’s mind, he was taller. Bigger. But still not as big as _her_.

They have spent years around monsters double and triple and quadruple the size of humans and yet, in their head, nobody can loom like their birth parents.

“So,” he says, “this is…”

“Where she left me,” Frisk finishes for him. “There was nothing here back then. Just an old abandoned bus stop.”

Now the bus stop isn’t abandoned. The shelter and bench have been replaced. Both are larger, shinier, nicer. It is close to the edge of the urban center of Newer Home, only a fifteen-minute walk from the Embassy. Another one or two blocks would have put them in one of the monster suburbs. If they sit here long enough, a bus will come by. Most of them are local, but Frisk knows there are a few buses that go to nearby cities from here.

It is no longer abandoned, but it is currently empty except for Frisk and their birth father, who are each occupying an end of the bench.

“Can you…” It takes them several tries to get their voice working properly. “I know most of… what went wrong. But I heard m-most of it through… through all the yelling. Can you tell me? From the beginning?”

Ulric nods. “You know… your mother and I were in college when you were born. It was an accident. We weren’t even together before the pregnancy, but… her parents pushed her, and she pushed me. So we got married, she dropped out, and I got lucky and got a relatively high-paying job right after graduation. And… things were good.”

Frisk remembers. They got to dress up and go to fancy parties all the time. Their parents even let them be silly enough to make all the adults laugh. Sometimes their mother wanted them to show off the results of their piano lessons and they would play. At home, their parents would laugh when Frisk got into their mother’s too-big high heels and awkwardly shuffled around the house. Their mother read to them every night before bed, and when it came time for them to learn, they read to her.

“The CEO of my company was one of my father’s old friends,” he continues. “He really helped me out after my parents died. Even hired me on as a consultant while I was still in school. He got nailed for embezzlement. Company was sold after that, and most of us got laid off.”

They remember the job loss, but not the reason why. How did that happen? How can one person be good enough to help a struggling young family and at the same time be bad enough to steal and ruin the careers of hundreds of employees?

Frisk knows that better than anybody. Nobody is entirely good or bad. People have flaws and virtues. All those timelines, the people they killed, when they were cruel…

“And then it went bad,” Frisk says, staring straight ahead.

“Your mother… was used to a particular lifestyle. And within weeks of my job loss, her parents both died. She… became a little unstable after that.”

Now they turn their head, fixing their birth father with a blank stare until he gets uncomfortable and breaks eye contact. “I suppose that’s an understatement,” he admits.

“You both started drinking,” Frisk says. “She started hitting me and throwing empty wine bottles at me.” Almost immediately after it comes out, their words dry up. They try to swallow the lump in their throat. It has been _so long_ since their voice refused to work.

As they watch Ulric, they realize he cannot speak for a moment, either. He finally nods. “You don’t owe me anything, so you don’t have to answer, but…” he trails off, going quiet for a second. “Was she like that before I lost my job?”

Frisk pinches the skin on the back of their hand. Not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to see the skin tent up. “Not that bad. She used to be nice to me. She used to cook for me and teach me how to do things. Even so, she… everything was about her. How I dressed, how I behaved in public, when I could speak. It was all about pleasing her.”

“It was, wasn’t it.”

There is another long pause. Finally, Frisk bites it out. “I know she insulted you and cut you down like she did to me. I know you were exhausted from working two dead-end jobs after you got laid off. None of that mattered. It was your job to protect me and you didn’t.”

They can’t look at him, but they hear it from him, barely a whisper: “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You never smacked me around or yelled at me, but you didn’t have to. You never asked me why I had bruises or why I was crying because you were too busy getting drunk on the couch and the only time you paid attention to me was to tell me not to make her mad and to ask me to get you another _fucking_ beer!”

They are almost shouting by the end of it and they never raise their voice, the loudest they ever speak is during speeches when they have to project for the sake of the microphones and the crowds and it was _years_ before they could do that well, it was _years_ before they felt comfortable with words coming out of their mouth and they didn’t hear her voice hissing at them in their head to _shut up, brats don’t get to talk—_

“And you _left me with her_!” They are screaming now, and they hate the volume, and the sound of their own voice makes them nervous the way it did so long ago, but for the life of them they cannot turn it down. “You rolled over and you left even though you _knew_! You were a fucking _coward_ and…” and their face is wet, and they are standing, and they can hardly breathe, “and I _needed_ you, and you left me. She abandoned me here, but you abandoned me _first_.”

Frisk sits back down, biting their lip, fists clenched, fighting the urge to curl up into a ball to make themself as small as possible.

It takes a long time before their breathing slows. It takes a long time for them to work up the guts to look over at him. When they see he’s crying too, they face forward again, quickly, before they lose it and start sobbing. They already did that once. They can wait until later to do it again.

Finally, finally, he chokes out, “I know.”

Frisk never wanted an acknowledgement of the wrongs done to them. They never wanted to see their birth parents again. They never wanted apologies or tears. They never wanted this because even though he came with his guard down, even though he’s taking full responsibility, even though he’s not trying to make up for it because he knows nothing he can do will ever make up for it, Frisk honestly isn’t sure they can forgive him. They _want_ to be that person, the person who can forgive anyone and everyone, the person capable of mediating all conflicts as they gently guide the world towards peace, but…

They remember eight years ago when Isla approached them here and they reflexively curled up in the corner. They knew Sans was watching them, ready to keep them safe. It didn’t matter. If a larger human approached them in Isla’s place, Chara might have panicked. They were anxious enough with Isla there, but she – she’s practically the same size as Frisk’s birth mother, and at first, they almost couldn’t get their voice to work around her.

“When we go back,” Frisk says, “I want you to give your contact information to my parents. Address included. Your kids… I need to make sure they’re okay.”

“They are. I… know you can’t believe me, but they are. My wife – their mother – she’s good. She’s a good person.”

“You’re also to go to the lab to have your soul read and give them a DNA sample. They always need more data, and I’m… curious.”

He looks a little confused at this demand, but nods nonetheless.

“When I’m ready, I’m going to call you. Or email you. Or write you.” Whatever feels right to them. Whatever they can do. “We’re going to talk on my terms. I… I can’t forgive you now. But I will, someday.”

Their birth father nods again. He looks almost grateful, and Frisk realizes that he was literally expecting nothing from them. He felt like he deserved nothing from them, least of all their forgiveness.

It’s going to be hard. Really hard. It might even be the hardest thing they ever have to do, but… it’s also the right thing. And that’s the important part.


	18. Reconciliation: the restoration of a previous friendly relationship after a conflict.

On the last day of his internship, Riley texts me and says he wants to talk to me, so we get dinner. I take him to the MTT Resort because the food is good.

“What’s your next step?” I ask him once we’re settled down.

“Asgore offered me a job,” he replies. “He didn’t tell you?”

“That’s great,” I say. Asgore and Toriel have been incredibly busy the past couple of weeks. I’m not surprised Asgore forgot to say something. And, really, nobody is required to tell me about the internal workings of the Embassy anymore. “Are you going to accept?”

“Yeah. I think I’m going to run for the Wisconsin State Assembly, too. Not next year, but soon.”

“You have plenty time to do that, and monsters can’t vote yet. If you run too soon, we won’t be able to support you in your campaign.”

“I know, but I can’t do anything about that unless I get elected.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That’s your goal? To get the monster community voting rights?”

“It’s not just voting rights. They aren’t allowed to fund campaigns. They don’t get a say and it’s wrong.” He aggressively bites his dinner roll, chews, and swallows. “Besides, once we fix that part, it should be easier to get overall legal equality. You know, like that marriage law Frisk has been pushing for years.”

My phone buzzes. I look at it. “Speaking of which,” I say.

“Is it Sans?” Riley asks.

It’s a text: _finished early today do u wanna get grillbys_

“Yeah,” I answer. I type, _Eating with Riley. Ask Asgore if he wants to take Asriel and Chara to Grillby’s. When he has to cook he always tries to replicate Toriel’s meals and it never works out the way he likes._

_thats a good idea ill ask him_

“I finally got my soul read at the lab,” Riley says. “I knew what I was as soon as I read everything that came out on souls and magic, so I completely forgot to go and get it confirmed until Asgore said something.”

“What are you?”

“Red,” he answers. “Determination.”

“Of course you are,” I say. Then I remember something. “Gimme a moment.”

I open up my conversation with Sans on my phone. _Riley just told me he threw red at the lab._

_yeah he did_

_Solomon Calder told me awhile ago he got his soul read too._

_yeah he did. that was months ago_

_What did he throw?_

Our waiter comes by to take our order. Riley is halfway through his second dinner roll.

Sans’s response is, _ur supposed to guess_

I frown at that. Calder said the same thing. Calder asked Sans not to tell me and Sans is playing along.

But I don’t even need to guess, do I? I know. I think I’ve known for a long time.

I sigh and type, _He’s light blue._

And I immediately get a response: _u got it_

“Something wrong?” Riley asks.

“No.” I read Sans’s next text and laugh, setting my phone aside. “He says he’s got a date with the king and told me not to lead you on too much. He’s such a shit.”

Riley snorts. “We’re about five years too late for that.”

I cock my head to one side. “What?”

He fidgets for a second, then rolls his eyes. “Damn. I, uh, literally had a decade-long crush on you. Sans said something about it when I went to the lab, so I assumed you figured it out and told him.” When he sees my face he quickly adds, “He wasn’t an ass about it. He just, uh, told me I’d probably like you less if I got to know the real you… now that I’m saying it out loud maybe he was an ass about it.”

He can barely get it out because I start laughing before he’s done talking. Wow, Sans knows me too well. He’s so right. Anyone who takes a strong liking to me because of a first impression usually has to reevaluate their feelings about me if they get to know me better.

Riley is looking at me, confused, but he’s also turning red and I should fix that. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” I say. “I… didn’t know that.”

“You took bullets for me and saved my life,” he says. He’s trying to sound accusing, but there’s a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t date until I was nineteen and I was a goddamn virgin until I was twenty because I had it bad for you. I had this fantasy of finding you and showing up like ‘here I am, look at how much of an adult I am now,’ and naturally I expected you would immediately fall into my arms and we would live happily ever after.”

I was a virgin until I was twenty-one, though that was largely a product of my asexuality. And a staunch refusal to let anyone other than my doctors touch the bullet scars on my abdomen and thigh.

I lean my chin in my hand. “And what would you have said to me?”

He groans and rolls his eyes again. “You’re a damn sadist.”

“Not that, surely.”

He blushes again but snorts in laughter. “Seriously, you can make fun of me later. I didn’t ask you here to confess to a years-dead infatuation.”

I definitely could have kept taunting him. “Then what is it?”

“Just – damn, we were having fun, and this isn’t fun, and I don’t wanna ruin the fun, but – all I knew of you as a kid was that you were my favorite councilor, and then I was alive because of you.”

He’s not amused anymore. Should have figured we were going to go here. We always have to go here.

“And then you were gone,” he says, “and I had this idea of you, this person who saved my life. I idealized you for years, and I fell in love with that idealized version of you, and then I _found_ you and – you were nothing like what I’d built you up to be in my head. I mean, how could you be? You were a real person.” He shifts, uncomfortable. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say. You didn’t disappoint me, because that’s not fair, because my expectations were unrealistic and I was in love with my expectations. I – I’m glad I got to know the real you, even if you’re not what I thought I loved about you for ten years.”

Since the shooting, I have been crushing myself under the weight of my own expectations, because I failed in the worst way. I didn’t repress the memory because I was shot. I repressed the memory because I killed somebody. I have been trying to make up for that by always doing more and more. I have always tried to prevent it from happening again by being hypervigilant, by identifying and stopping anything that might be hostile, by seizing control of every single situation that I can.

And I am tired. It’s exhausting and unhealthy and I need to stop doing it. Frisk helped me start by firing me. I need to finish it. My family will help me, because I’ll probably need help at some point, but I still have to do it.

“For a long time, I didn’t want a single reminder of any of it,” I reply. “Meeting you again was not easy for me. But you know that. And I’m glad you’re here.”

 

* * *

 

Frisk decided within a week of their birth father leaving that they wanted to see his home in Milwaukee. Toriel was not certain it would be good for them to do that so soon. She would have preferred they take some time to recover, but they were determined.

They also wanted to go alone, but she never would have allowed that. Asgore suggested they make it a family trip. Even Chara offered to go, but Frisk told Chara and Asriel that it felt too soon. They were not going so their family could meet their blood relatives. This was not a friendly visit. They were going because they had to check on their biological half-siblings for their own peace of mind.

So Toriel ended up accompanying them. The drive is about three-and-a-half hours and Frisk is quiet. She does not try overly to engage them. It is understandable if they wish to have time alone with their thoughts right now.

The GPS leads them to a cute little brick house in the suburbs. Toriel gets out of the car. So does Frisk. They walk up the pathway to the front door and stop there for a moment, gaze roving over every inch of the house.

“Frisk?” she asks.

They inhale, exhale, walk up to the front door, and press the doorbell. Toriel approaches, but stays behind them. She gives their shoulder a quick squeeze.

The door opens. Ulric looks partially happy but mostly nervous. “Hello, Frisk, Queen Toriel. Please come in.”

“Greetings,” Toriel supplies when Frisk says nothing. “How are you this evening?”

“We’re good,” he answers. “We went school shopping today. The kids are sorting through their stuff with Neema in the other room.”

Frisk immediately moves towards the sound of children giggling in the next room. Toriel stays where she is and slowly counts to eight. He will become uncomfortable with the silence, and then—

“How is—?” he starts awkwardly, only to stop and try again. “How has Frisk been?”

Toriel considers her answer. “Your appearance certainly rattled them, but they have been doing better. They were quite insistent on coming here.”

“My appearance upset them, you mean,” Ulric says.

This is accurate, but there is no point in harping on it. “How old are your children?” Toriel asks him.

He leads her through a short hallway into the next room. There is a couch and a television on the right and a kitchen on the left. In the far corner, Toriel spots a colorful rug that is home to a chest of toys and a child-sized table with bright green chairs. She has an area much like that in her classroom.

In front of the couch, two brown-skinned children are showing Frisk their crayons and new folders. “Adia’s six,” Ulric says. “Alix is five.”

Frisk has never been particularly interested in children, even when they were a child, but they are paying close attention to these children. A woman is sitting on the couch, relaxed, overseeing the interaction. She has bouncy black hair and a demeanor so open and friendly that Toriel can immediately tell her soul is light blue just by being in her vicinity.

Frisk says something that makes Alix giggle. It is sort of strange to look at these children and see that the slope of Adia’s jaw is the same as Frisk’s or that Frisk and Alix have the same nose. All three of them have similar smiles, too.

Neema sees them and rises from the couch. When she approaches, Toriel can abruptly sense that Ulric’s soul is bright and orange, which is what the scanner told them after Frisk requested he have his soul read. Toriel can typically sense vague aspects of the souls of nearby humans, but she expected Frisk’s birth father to be so on guard around her that she would not be able to sense his color. That Ulric and Neema open up so automatically around one another is a very good sign.

“Hello, Queen Toriel,” she says, offering her hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Toriel accepts the handshake. “It is nice to meet you as well, Neema. I must say, your children look to be very lively.”

Her face softens in a way that lets Toriel know she truly appreciates the compliment. “Oh, thank you.” As if on cue, Adia and Alix shriek in laughter at something Frisk has done. “They can be quite energetic at times.”

Adia is tugging Frisk over to her parents and Toriel. Alix runs ahead of them. “Mom, Dad, can we show Frisk our bikes!?” he bursts out. “Pretty please!?”

Frisk catches Toriel’s eye and shoots her a small smile. They do not seem tense and their aura is guarded, but calm.

“Sure, just stay in the backyard,” Neema replies. “And be careful of your father’s garden.”

Alix bounces towards the backdoor, Adia pulling Frisk along behind him. Their giggling is muffled when the glass door slides shut behind them.

Ulric looks at Toriel, but he breaks eye contact almost immediately. Even in that fraction of a second, Toriel can see the question in his eyes. “Frisk does want to speak to you later,” she says gently. “They intended to spend some time with your children first.”

“I’d… hoped to talk with them, too,” Ulric replies. His voice is quiet, uncertain. “Honestly, part of me is still surprised they came here at all.”

Neema places her hand on her husband’s shoulder. Once more, Toriel senses the love and openness between the two of them. She hasn’t even been here for ten minutes, but she believes this is a good home.

“I’m glad they came, but I won’t push them,” Ulric continues. “They get to decide the pace of this.”

 

* * *

 

During the first week of August, Tala Massoud’s divorce is finalized. It is Asgore’s understanding that it was an ugly, contested affair. He and Toriel covered her legal fees, not that the public is aware of that. The relentless media coverage led to multiple calls for Wallace Vance to resign. He did not do so until Solomon Calder also called for his resignation, after which Vance agreed to all of Tala’s lawyer’s terms in order to push the paperwork through as quickly as possible so he could get out of the public eye.

If Asgore has learnt anything from this, it is that sometimes humans with little financial means have no way out of unsafe situations. Thus far, the monster community has been protected from homelessness or financial strain by the value of their Underground currency, but some of their human neighbors may need their help now.

He contacts Mason James, the CEO of the biggest local construction company and the first that came and assisted the monster community in building their city. Their headquarters have since been moved to Newer Home. For the most part, Asgore likes him. He donates frequently to charities and makes sure his employees are well-paid. His eldest son is another story, but Jackson is not supposed to join them today.

They meet in the Embassy’s cafeteria. Asgore wonders how Tala is doing. He offered to put her somewhere more private, like administration, but she said she would prefer food preparation. She and Toriel would occasionally exchange recipes and cook together while she was attempting to avoid the media attention.

“What’s on your mind?” Mason asks when they sit down. His soul is brightly and outwardly purple. “You have the project look in your eyes.”

It feels a little strange to have not spoken to Isla or Frisk about this first, but that wasn’t necessary. He knows this needs to happen. “I do have something in mind,” he says. “I was hoping to contract a building. I want to put up a shelter for people who have nowhere to stay. I would like it to be close to the Embassy so that we may assist people in finding jobs. Oh, and I would like to build another greenhouse out back for the increase in food demand I am anticipating this project will bring.”

Mason looks at him for a moment, then laughs. “And here I thought you were nearly done contracting large projects.” He pauses to think. “I don’t believe there is a homeless shelter in Newer Home. Not even on the other side of the city.”

“That is why we need one,” Asgore says, “as soon as possible.”

Mason nods. “I’m in. Let’s brainstorm for a bit, then I’ll call someone to bring the official paperwork over.”

 

* * *

 

After nearly a week of sweltering hot days, the day of the wedding turns out to be just the right temperature. The clouds in the sky are puffy and white. Asgore has worked his magic on all of the flower beds and the floral decorations on the trees and chairs in the backyard.

I’m currently crippled, so I’m useless when it comes to preparations. I’m placed in a lawn chair on the deck. I watch while the chairs are set up. Sans disappeared to help Asgore get ready – and likely calm him down – and Alphys is assisting Toriel. Undyne is helping Mettaton set up a single camera. Toriel and Asgore gave him permission to record the ceremony because this is going to be a small affair.

Eventually Chara shoos Frisk away from the flowers because Frisk keeps wanting to put the most brightly colored flowers together, regardless of how well they match. They come over to me. Like Chara, they are wearing their red robes. “Do you need anything?” they ask me. “Are you thirsty? I’ll have Undyne bring the cooler out here.”

“I don’t need anything,” I tell them. “Sit down with me for a minute.”

They pull over another lawn chair. “Okay, but tell me the instant you need anything. Chara kicked me off decorating, so I could use something to do.”

I reach out and hold out a hand, palm-up. They take it. “How are you doing?” I ask. “There is no hurry on this. Your parents will do this when everything is ready. They want this to be relaxed.”

“I know, I know.” They glance at the trellis that is going to be the backdrop for the ceremony. Mettaton and Chara are working on decorating it. When they come back to me, I see their gaze flick to my bad knee. “I just… thought you might feel left out.”

They’ve been dancing around this issue for a long time. And I hesitate to address it now, but I know Toriel and Asgore would want me to. They always put their children first, as parents should.

“Frisk,” I say, because I can tell their attention is, once again, on my knee. “You know whose fault this is?”

Their gaze snaps to mine, widening in surprise. “What?”

“It’s mine,” I say. “I know you’ve been telling yourself that if you hadn’t fired me, I would have been aware of what was going on and I wouldn’t have tackled a cop. But, Frisk, _I tackled a damn cop._ That’s on me. I did that instead of verbally calling out something I thought was suspicious.”

“B… but…” they stammer, and I can see them withdrawing into themself, arms in, shoulders up, chin tucked. Their eyebrows come together, expression twitching in… fear. That’s fear, and it is at that point I understand that my mistake went deeper than getting myself injured and physically assaulting an out-of-uniform cop who was trying to help a friend.

Because Calder was right all those years ago to call me out on my quickness to violence, and even when I realized he was right, I didn’t consider the consequences of what I had already done. From the beginning, Frisk has been in the public eye, and I was frequently with them, especially in the first couple of years after the Surfacing. There absolutely were times during which I had to physically harm people in order to protect them, but after the fact, I only focused on whether they were hurt and how they felt about people trying to hurt them and their friends and family. Not once did I consider that my immediate, violent reaction – even if that reaction protected them – might have upset them.

And I should have, because Frisk became used to blaming themself for bursts of violence from their birth mother. They never told me that, but I know it’s true.

I pull their hand a little closer to me so I can take it between both of mine. Maybe Asriel is the most attached to me, maybe Chara is the most like me, but Frisk was my first kid. And I’ve been fucking it up for years.

“Nothing you did makes this your fault,” I tell them. “Not even a little bit. I’m so sorry you had to see that. I’m sorry you had to see any of it, when I get like that. I… the shooting, it was… incredibly sudden. I trained myself to react on reflex. Yes, sometimes it was necessary, but… not all of it was. And you didn’t need that.”

They say nothing, but the tension in their body is building. I can feel it in the stiffness of their hand. “I’ve been working on it,” I continue. “I haven’t gotten very far, but I’m not going to stop. And – I’m sorry to bring this up today, of all days. And with everything you’ve had going on. I know seeing your birth father was one of the hardest things you’ve ever done.”

They let out a choking noise at that. Tears stream down their face, but it’s only a moment before they start wiping them away. Chara and Undyne have noticed and are looking in this direction.

I wait. I have said everything I need to say. They probably want their hand back, so I release it.

They finish wiping their face and then they scoot their chair closer to me. They extend both their hands and I place mine in theirs.

“I love you,” they say, voice small. “I love you – you don’t really look like my bio-mom, but you’re the same height. You have… the same silhouette.”

I don’t know what this means right now, but I know I have to wait. Wait until they are sure they are done, even though it burns to hear I literally cast the same shadow as someone who hurt them so terribly.

“I know you love me. And your love isn’t conditional on me behaving a certain way or taking up the right amount of space. If it was, something would have changed when I fired you, and nothing did.”

Now I have to say something. “Frisk, a lot changed when you fired me. I finally started to realize there are things I need to work on. I had the time to see my therapist. No, I didn’t want it to happen, but it was _good_ for me. And there was no way I was going to stop loving you over something so trivial as that. You’re far more important to me than where I work.”

They stare at my hands in theirs for a few seconds. Damn, mine are small compared to theirs. I’m a small person and I have small hands, but I remember when I had six monsters crashing in my two-bedroom apartment and this kid was practically swimming in one of my T-shirts and they’re so _big_ now.

They let go of my hands and stand so they can give me a bent-over hug. When they pull back, they manage to smile at me. “I think… maybe we should talk about this later.”

Yeah, that went deeper than I was expecting it to go. “Okay. It’s completely up to you.”

The sliding door opens, and Alphys’s voice comes out of the house: “Are you s-sure? What if you spill??”

Toriel steps onto the deck, wearing a knee-length lavender sundress. The hem is decorated with white and blue blossoms. She is carrying a crockpot of homemade macaroni, which she sets on the picnic table right next to the deck. “Oh, it’s fine,” she replies. “I only want to help.”

Kalene speed-walks out of the house behind her, also carrying a dish. Her hair is done up so intricately it’s clear Frisk got a hold of her earlier and she’s wearing a royal violet that brings out the blue of her eyes. “You aren’t supposed to help, it’s your wedding!” she scolds.

Alphys and Papyrus follow them with more food. Toriel immediately becomes distracted with the work Chara and Mettaton have done on the trellis. “Oh, this is lovely!” she exclaims, approaching them.

“It’s not done,” Chara says pointedly.

There is more chatter, then Asgore exits the house with Gaster and Sans behind him. The brim of his sunhat is encircled with yellow and pink blossoms. There are holes for his horns to poke through.

He and Toriel catch sight of one another. They both giggle and blush and Chara rolls their eyes so hard it’s audible, though they are smiling a little. Asriel begins to get dewy-eyed. Frisk, next to me, puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

“I think perhaps we should be married sooner,” Asgore says.

“Like right now?” Toriel suggests.

Asgore nods so hard a coneflower falls off his hat. Gaster picks it up and offers it to him. I guess I have to be the voice of reason. “We told the few guests you invited to be here in ten minutes.”

“Then let us finish setting up,” Toriel says. “Shall we get these flowers in place?”

 

* * *

 

The ceremony is short and sweet and casual. Fortunately, Saoirse sleeps through the whole thing. Afterwards, we scatter to the tables because Toriel and Asgore wanted to focus more on eating and socializing with their loved ones than formalities.

Sans puts me at a picnic table and tells me he’ll be back with food. He and Papyrus have both been so helpful since I messed up my knee, and honestly, it’s that more than anything else that is pushing me to have it replaced. They both have plenty to do without having to worry about how much I’m walking or standing.

Toriel and Asgore are with their children. They almost look younger, in a way. They are both glowing with… something, something that intensifies every time they look at one another. I don’t know. Maybe I’m not supposed to get it.

“Hello, Isla.” Gaster has appeared next to me. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“You don’t have to ask,” I reply. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’ll wait a minute before getting food.” He slides his lanky legs between the bench and table, sitting across from me. “I wanted to ask you something.”

The children descend upon the food – and by that, I mean Asriel and Frisk seem to be competing to see who can pile the most food on their plate. Chara and Kalene exchange a glace behind them, both deciding to stay out of that inevitable mess.

“Go ahead,” I say.

He drums his fingers on the table. “Papyrus recently told me I could keep living at the house indefinitely,” he says. “I had initially assumed I would move once I found a place in the city, but I… was not on the best terms with Sans and my relationship with Papyrus was nonexistent when I assumed that. I talked to Sans as well. He told me he was alright with me staying and told me you would be alright with it, too.”

I look unblinkingly at him. “What, did you not believe him?”

He fidgets. I have learnt that it is incredibly difficult to make Gaster uncomfortable – he has simply seen too much to be taken aback by anything anymore – so some callous, vicious part of me is glad I can make him squirm. Quickly, though, that empty feeling dies out.

“I wanted to ask you myself,” he says. “You have not been… particularly opinionated on anything lately. I wanted to make sure you had a say.”

It didn’t take him long to figure out that I’m usually the person who makes the decisions, or that I have not been making as many lately. Sans was right to tell him I would be fine with his father living with us. He asked me early on if I was okay with it, but he really didn’t have to ask. I was going to go along with whatever he chose.

“I’m a control freak,” I admit. “I’ve been trying to be better lately about not being such a control freak. Sans is trying to be better about being confident in his choices. Of course I would be glad if you stayed with us. Sans has been sitting on a need for a relationship with his parent since before I knew him. Hell, Toriel’s his best friend and he occasionally happily lets her mother him. Or, better yet, look at me – I used to be precisely the same way you were. I would get focused on something and I would do it no matter what. Even if I had to abuse my meds or become what I hated to get it done.”

There is a pause. “I know nothing I do now can make up for my absence during their childhood,” Gaster says. “But I want to do better by my children.”

“That’s all we can do. Try to do better and try to quickly realize when we fuck up so we can apologize.”

“I would like to make a pact, Isla.” He sets his hands on the table, palm-up. It takes me a moment to realize what he wants, and I hesitate a little to place my hands in his. He touches people about as often as Sans does, so even after months of living in the same house, I have had very little physical contact with him.

“What kind of pact?” I ask.

“I would like you to tell me when I fuck up,” he says earnestly, and I snort in laughter because it’s literally the first time I’ve heard him swear. “I mean it. My sons are likely to let my behavior go until it becomes intolerable instead of telling me when it merely annoys them. And I will tell you when I notice your self-destructive, controlling tendencies beginning to appear. Deal?”

Actually, it might be nice for Sans if he didn’t have to count my pills. Maybe I can talk to him and see if he would rather let his father have that responsibility. “Deal,” I say. “Why don’t you go get some food?”

“Oh, right,” Gaster says, rising to his feet. Sans comes over with two plates, one for himself and one for me. His father waves at him before going to see how the backyard picnic fared after Frisk and Asriel.

“Heya,” Sans says. “What was that about?”

“Thanks,” I tell him. Ooh, he brought me some of that casserole Kalene brought to the Surface Day picnic in July. “He just wanted to talk to me about how he’s going to be staying with us indefinitely. I think he wants to spend more time with you both, but he’s kind of awkward and he knows it. I’m not sure he knows how to ask you.”

“Yeah, he’s always been a little off socially.” He taps his fork against his chin. “Shouldn’t be hard for me to think of somethin’. We’ve got shared interests. Not sure Papyrus is into anything Dad does, though. Think I’ll just tell Papyrus, let him decide what to do.”

“You’re evil. You know Papyrus will take him _so far_ out of his comfort zone.”

Sans grins. “Honestly it’ll probably be good for him. And for Paps.”

I fork casserole into my mouth. “You don’t have to worry about missing work for my appointment next week. Asriel said he’d take me. He doesn’t have class Thursday afternoons.”

“Alright, but call me if you need me. I’ll be able to step away for a bit.”

There is a startled yelp from the adjacent table. Chara has chocolate on their jaw and, judging from Frisk’s grin, they are the culprit who pushed Chara’s head into their desert. Chara grabs a palmful of whipped cream off Asriel’s butterscotch-cinnamon pie, earning a protest from him, and shoves the whipped cream into Frisk’s face because they aren’t fast enough to get away. Kalene laughs and passes a fresh slice of pie to Asriel, this one with a dollop of whipped cream on top.

“Those kids are growing up too damn fast,” Sans says.

I look at him. Maybe I do understand why Asgore and Toriel seemed as though they were glowing earlier. “Yeah, we are too,” I reply jokingly. “Remember when we didn’t have anything figured out?”

“Took me a while to realize the answer was to pretend you had it figured out. You could do that from the beginning. You were good at fakin’ it.”

“Sans, I’m terrible at faking it. If I ever tried to fake it with you, you would know immediately.”

His face goes blue and he elbows me. “Good one.” He looks back at the kids. “They’ll figure their crap out soon enough.”

“Eventually.” I wrap my arm around his shoulders and he leans into me. “They have plenty of time. And it’s their turn now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for seeing this through with me; feel free to drop a line. I've started working on the next installment of this series, but I don't know when it will be finished. I'm hoping to make some substantial progress on it over summer break.


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